“You don’t exactly scream ‘measuring cups and frosting tips.’”
That earns me a low laugh. “You gonna help me or not, sweetheart?”
I pretend to consider it. Then I sigh, dramatic. “Fine. But I’m in charge.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He salutes.
God help us.
We’re in the kitchen of his cabin. It’s small, but we’ll make it work. The cast iron pan from breakfast still sits on the stove. The sink’s spotless, a towel draped neatly over the edge. Now the counter’s crowded with mixing bowls, a dozen ingredients, and one ex-Marine cracking his knuckles like he’s about to go to war with a bag of flour.
“Wait, wait,” I say, swatting his hand. “You don’t just dump it in.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re baking, not starting a fire.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Thought fire was the end goal.”
“Notyet.”
I talk him through the ingredients step by step. He tries to play it cool, but I see how his brows furrow when he measures. He double-checks everything like the recipe is a classified briefing. All intensity. All control. Like one wrong move and the cake will self-destruct.
He cracks an egg a little too hard. It splatters everywhere.
“Smooth,” I say, grinning.
He gives me a look. “That egg had an attitude.”
When I hand him the whisk, he holds it like a weapon.
“No,” I laugh, adjusting his grip. “You're not interrogating the batter. Gentle. Circular.”
“Gentle’s not usually my thing.”
My face heats. “Well... consider this practice.”
His grin is unfair. Smug and slow and entirely too effective.
We get through the batter without disaster. By the time it’s in the oven, I’m covered in flour. So is he. And somehow, I’m standing between his legs, perched on a stool, while he wipes a smudge from my cheek with the pad of his thumb.
“You’ve got…” His hand lingers. “Right here.”
“Flour?”
He nods, gaze lingering. “And a look like you’re trying not to kiss me.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?”
I don’t get the chance to answer, because he leans in and kisses me—soft, lazy, tasting like vanilla and something warmer. I kiss him back, just for a second. Just enough for his fingers to rest against my waist.
Then the oven dings.
“Saved by the cake,” I breathe, pulling away.
“The damn cake,” he mutters.
