His kitchen had never seen this level of activity. I pulled out mixing bowls and measuring cups while he watched with clear skepticism.
"First rule of baking," I said, tying my hair back. "Follow the recipe exactly."
"I can do that."
"Can you though?"
Twenty minutes into the project, I realized I'd been overly optimistic.
"Wait—that's way too much," I said, catching his hand before he dumped what looked like half the container into the bowl.
"The recipe says add salt."
"A teaspoon. Not a tablespoon. And definitely not—" I peered at the container he was holding. "Oh my god, that's sugar."
"What?"
"You're salting the dough with sugar." I couldn't help laughing. "They're in completely different containers!"
"They're both white and granular!"
"One says SALT and one says SUGAR." I pointed at the labels. "See? Words. Very helpful."
He scowled, but his mouth twitched. "New rule. You handle all the ingredients."
"New rule accepted. You're on stirring duty only."
He could handle stirring. What he couldn't handle was not getting flour everywhere. Or resisting tasting the raw dough. Or keeping his hands to himself when I bent over to check the oven temperature.
"Focus," I said, swatting his hand away from my ass. "First batch is almost ready."
"I'm very focused." His voice was low, heated. "Just not on cookies."
The timer dinged. I pulled out the tray and surveyed the results—golden brown, crispy edges, perfect. "See? Not a disaster."
"Those look actually good."
"Told you." I set them on the cooling rack, already mentally planning the icing. "We'll do two more batches, then decorate."
The second batch went into the oven, and I turned to find Bart watching me with an expression that made heat pool low in my belly.
"What?"
"You have flour in your hair." He reached out, fingers gentle as he brushed it away. "And on your cheek. And—"
"If you say I look adorable, I'm going to throw dough at you."
"I was going to say you look sexy." He pulled me closer. "Covered in flour, teaching me in my kitchen. Very sexy."
"The cookies—"
"Can wait five minutes." His mouth found mine, tasting like vanilla and butter and want.
Except five minutes turned into ten, then fifteen. By the time the timer went off again, our breathing was ragged and the kitchen smelled distinctly of smoke.
"The cookies!" I shoved him away, grabbing for the oven mitt.
Too late. The second batch was burnt black, inedible.
