“See? Definitely not on fire.”
And there he is.
My neighbor looks like sin in a black henley under his open leather cut, road-dusty jeans, helmet hair tousled, sculpted jaw shadowed. Close-up, he smells like leather, engine oil, and spice. His emerald green eyes sweep me slowly; my messy hair, the flour handprint on my thigh, the towel in my grip. His intense gaze feels almost like a touch, heat dragging across my skin.
“You sure? Something’s burning.” His voice drops onburning, and for a wild second, I wonder if he means the crackling tension between us.
“My rolls!” I bolt back inside, the door swinging wide. What if they’re still on fire?
The ruined pan sits on the floor like a monument to failure. I throw them into the trash, swallowing the lump in my throat.
“Are they for the Fall Festival competition?”
I jump. He’s followed me in, filling my kitchen with his massive frame until the vintage appliances and gingham curtains look like dollhouse props.
“Yeah. Still perfecting the recipe. Help yourself.” I dump the last charred roll. “I’m Juniper, by the way.”
“Kieran.” He picks up one from batch two.
I watch, riveted, as he bites. His eyes close. A low sound rumbles from his chest, vibrating straight through me.
“Fuck, that’s good.”
My thighs clench. Heat spreads from my chest to my core.
“It’s too dense,” I argue, desperate to focus on anything but his mouth on my pastry. “I think the cinnamon distribution’s uneven.”
He takes another slow bite. Licks glaze from his lip. “It tastes perfect to me.”
“Perfect’s boring. Safe. Vanilla.” The bitterness in my voice sounds like my ex.
“Vanilla can be complex.” He steps closer. My back hits the counter. The heat of his body seeps into me. “Most people don’t know how to appreciate it.”
His gaze drops to my chest, then my thighs, before snapping back to my eyes. My nipples pebble under my shirt.
“You should open some windows,” he rasps, stepping back. “The smoke’s thick in here.”
I exhale, shaky. “Right. Windows.”
I brush his chest as I pass. We both freeze, then I force myself forward and fling open the sash. The October air rushes in, crisp and clear, and I take a deep breath.
“Didn’t peg you for a metalhead,” he nods at my speaker.
“Is that because I wear vintage dresses and bake for a living?”
“Because you seem way too sweet for songs about death and destruction.”
“I’m notthatsweet.”
His mouth curves into a lopsided grin. It’s devastating. “I’m starting to see that.”
The air thickens again, charged, and I swallow.
“I should let you get back.” He heads to the door, voice casual, his eyes anything but. “Try another batch again, but with brown butter in the dough. It adds taste without losing the classic flavor.”
I blink. “You bake?”
“My grandma taught me a few things.” He pauses in the doorway, filling it. “See you around, Juniper.”
