I jerk my attention back to the bowl like it suddenly contains the mysteries of the universe.
“Everything okay over there?” he asks, voice warm, a little amused.
Lie. Lie convincingly, Emmy.
“Peachy!” I say brightly. Too brightly. Like a Disney Princess hopped up on espresso.
His lips tilt in that half-smile that should be illegal. “Uh-huh.”
He doesn’t push, but I can feel him watching me. It makes my skin prickle, my breath shorten, my heartbeat thrum in a way that is absolutely not conducive to baking.
I take a deep breath and stir the mixture in front of me, trying to ground myself. Work helps. Usually. Except when my brain keeps replaying last night in high-definition slow motion.
He kissed me.
I kissed him back.
And it wasn’t a mistake.
That’s the part that’s messing me up.
It feels like a brand new beginning. A door that was always there, staring us right in the face, that’s finally open.
It sounds stupid and incredibly cheesy, but I feel like I’m seeing the world in brighter colors now.
All from a single kiss.
I grip the countertop, steadying myself.
“Are you sure everything’s okay over there?” Hayes asks, drying his hands.
“I’m focusing,” I insist.
“Right. On… flour?”
I close my eyes. “Please stop talking.”
He laughs under his breath—a low, warm rumble that skitters right down my spine.
I cannot do this.
I cannot bake and blush and internally combust all day.
I turn away and grab the sack of cinnamon. We don’t need cinnamon yet, but I need something to stare at that is not him.
His voice softens. “Em.”
I freeze.
Because I know that tone.
Soft.
Careful.
Sweet.
It’s all weighing on him, too.
