“Good chaos?”
“The very best,” she said, laughing quietly. The sound was so gentle, so unexpected, that he felt something uncoil in his chest.
Neither of them moved. The air between them felt fragile, threaded with something dangerous and tender.
“We should go back,” she said after a long silence. “The gingerbread will burn.”
“The gingerbread is an excuse.”
“For what?”
“For remaining near you.”
“That’s not very duke-like.”
“I’m improving.”
“Are you?”
“I am trying.”
“I don’t know,” she said, pretending to consider it. “I’ve never been courted through baking warfare before.”
“It has its charms.”
“It has its absurdities.”
“Those too.”
She exhaled slowly, brushing a bit of flour from his temple with her fingers. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet you’re still here.”
“I haven’t chosen anything yet,” she warned.
“Haven’t you?”
Her hand lingered, fingertips grazing his hairline. “Maybe I have. A little.”
“Just a little?”
“Don’t push, Your Grace.”
“I’m not pushing. I’m clarifying.”
“Clarifying is the polite cousin of pushing.”
“Everything with you is polite cousins and dangerous proximity,” he murmured.
“That’s safer than honesty.”
“Is it?”
“Usually.”
“And tonight?”
She thought about his question and when they got into the bakery she said: "I know what to make."
