“I had no intention of drawing you into that. It just—wait, you were baking? Is that what that smell is?” She breathes in deep. “What did you make?”
“Chocolate cake,” I say, softly gripping her calf as I lean over her knee. With gentle motions, I dab the wound with the soaked cloth. She doesn’t hiss or wince, which tells me the lesion has probably closed already. I apply slightly more pressure, focusing my efforts on cleaning the blood. I glance up at her, ensuring she shows no sign of pain, and find her staring down at me with a questioning look.
“You baked a chocolate cake at midnight?”
I return my gaze to her leg, running the cloth down the length of her shin where rivulets of crimson have dried. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“You bake cakes when you can’t sleep?”
“Of course I do. What do you do when you can’t sleep?” My eyes flick to hers, and I lift a corner of my mouth. “Oh, wait. I know the answer to that.”
Her nostrils flare as she realizes what I’m referring to. She aims a kick at my shoulder, but I grip her ankle, softening an already weak blow. Her jaw tightens as I hold the ankle in place, her heel pressed to my bicep. I lean slightly forward, forcing her to fall back. She catches herself on her forearms, blinking at me in surprise. “Careful,” I whisper. “I could get into this.”
Her chest heaves, and the way she’s half sprawled on the countertop, eyes dancing with anger, her leg nearly thrown over my shoulder, has my mind going to places better left unexplored. I give her another smirk, then release her ankle. She sits upright, cheeks blazing as she burns me with a glare. With a huff, she reaches for the cloth and yanks it from my hand.
“I’ll finish tending to myself, thank you.” Crossing the wounded leg over the other, she picks up where I left off.
“Oh, I know you will. I’ve seen you do it.”
Her gaze is murderous as she speaks through her teeth. “Will you stop bringing that up?”
I chuckle and saunter over to the stove, where the scent of chocolate has grown to a mouthwatering degree. Oven mitt in hand, I open the stove and remove the tray of four ramekins. Then I set it on the wooden worktable to cool while I retrieve plates and forks.
“That doesn’t look like chocolate cake,” Briony says.
I return to her with two plates in hand. She’s finished cleaning her leg, though it remains bare, crossed over the other in a tantalizing display of smooth flesh. I force my gaze back to the ramekins. “It’s not the kind of cake you’re thinking of.”
“What kind is it?”
“You’ll see.” I count off the seconds in my head, just long enough to ensure the cakes cool slightly. Then I place a plate over one of the ramekins and flip them over together. With the mitt, I lift the ramekin from the plate, leaving its delectably dark contents perched upon it. I hand it to Briony along with a fork. “Molten chocolate cake. The perfect cure for a broken heart.”
She gives me a withering look. “My heart isn’t broken.”
“Well, then. I suppose you won’t need this.” I start to take the plate away, but she grasps it with her fingertips.
“I still want cake.”
With a grin, I release the plate and tend to my serving. I lean against the edge of the counter and taste my creation. It’s perfect. Rich and slightly crisped on the outside, warm and melted on the inside. One of my favorite things to make when sleep eludes me.
Briony releases a soft moan, one that reflects her enjoyment of the cake but has my mind flashing back to when I had her ankle in my grip. I smother the thought in another bite of cake.
“This is really good,” she says.
“I’m glad,” I say, not daring to look at her, for if her face reveals as much pleasure as her voice does—I shake my head. “It’s one of the first things my father taught me to bake. He always made it to cheer me up.”
“You and I have similar upbringings.” Her words are muffled, and I hear her scrape her plate for another bite. “The sisters at the convent were always baking things. I can’t help but associate sugar with comfort.”
“Then I suppose it’s a pleasant coincidence that I just so happened to be baking cakes while you were…distressed.”
She says nothing for a few more bites. Then, “I meant what I said about not being broken-hearted. I’m not hurt in the way you think.”
I finish my final bite and face her, careful to keep a few feet of space between us. Between the pleasure of sugar on my tongue and the sight of her perched on my countertop, robe still draped open over that leg, I find it impossible not to desire her. It’s not like this is new. I desired her when I thought she was nothing but a dream. But our current subject calls for candor. As much as I like to taunt her, flirt with her, and tease her, she deserves to get whatever is plaguing her off her chest. Despite what she says,somethinghurt her. It was clear in the way she was crouched in a ball, eyes squeezed tight, hands pressed over her ears. I thought my heart would burst in my chest when I found her like that, suddenly pulled into her daydream.
Keeping my voice nonchalant, I ask, “Then what happened?”
She takes another bite of cake, eyes distant. “I’m…not even sure myself. At first, I was simply embarrassed to have caught a private conversation, but once things escalated…” Her cheeks flush and her expression turns sour. “I shouldn’t have had to hear that, you know?”
“No, you shouldn’t have.”
