We cool the layers while he sneaks glances like they might misbehave. I show him how to level the tops and whip buttercream. He’s awful at piping.Trulyawful.
“Looks like a five-year-old iced this,” I say, staring at his attempt.
He shrugs. “Five-year-old has good taste.”
“I’m fixing it.”
I elbow him aside and take over. He watches me work, arms folded, brow raised.
“You like bossing me around.”
“You like being bossed.”
He leans in close, murmuring near my ear, “Only when it’s you.”
I almost drop the piping bag.
By the time we finish, the cake is imperfect, a little lopsided, but beautiful. A little messy, but made with more care than most people ever bother with.
“You did good,” I tell him, stepping back.
His arm slides around my waist. “Wedid good.”
He pulls me in and kisses me, slow and sweet. And for a moment, it’s not about the past or danger or what’s waiting for us down the road.
It’s just a kitchen. A cake. A man I’m starting to fall for.
And the smell of something warm and sweet wraps around us, thick with vanilla and just a little too much powdered sugar.
“You know,” I say, brushing flour off my shirt, “you should come to my class at the community center. You’d definitely tip the age balance… but I think the ladies could survive.”
He arches a brow. “Only if you promise not to get jealous when they start flirting with me.”
I scoff. “Please. Dorothy would eat you alive.”
His grin is smug. “You’d still be the only one I’d flirt back with.”
My stomach flips, but I cover it with a smirk. “Smooth.”
“I try.” His voice dips, warm and serious beneath the teasing. “Tell me you’ll be okay here. I’ve got some things to handle, but I’ll send Ghost to bring you to the clubhouse later tonight.”
I arch a brow. “You’re assigning me a babysitter now?”
“No.” He steps closer, crowding into my space just enough. “I’m sending someone so I don’t lose my mind wondering if you’re okay.”
My breath stutters. Heat blooms low in my belly at the quiet intensity in his voice. Still, I manage, “You’re awfully dramatic for someone who just learned what a rubber spatula is.”
“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, trailing a finger down my flour-dusted arm, “you think that was dramatic? Wait ‘til I have you back in my bed.”
A full-body shiver rolls through me.
“Fine,” I say, my voice a little too breathy.
He leans in, lips brushing mine just enough to make me melt.
The clubhouse looks different than I imagined. Still rough: brick walls, exposed beams, scuffed floors. But the light is softer, golden from a string of bulbs strung over the bar. The air smells like grilled meat, leather, and old wood. Cozy. The last thing I expected a biker clubhouse to be.
Ghost walked me in, giving a nod to the prospects on door duty.
