“But the moment it leans the wrong way, he redirects,” another one closer cuts in. “Back to food. Back to craft.”
“So the energy stays safe.”
“That’s the discipline.”
“That’s the appeal.”
“No,” Nettie says loudly. “The appeal is he’s shirtless.”
The women purr.
Again, are they sure her hearing aid is missing?
“Apron on. Shirt nowhere to be found.”
“And the abs,” Jaclyn says. “Not even flexing, just moving when he breathes.”
My chest tightens.
Annoyingly.
Traitorously.
Remembering exactly what his abs felt like under my fingers and against my chest.
“Don’t forget the arms,” someone whispers, fingers tapping the edge of a bowl. “When he reaches for the counter. When he braces—oh, those biceps do something to me.”
A soft moan drifts through the group.
I take a longer sip of wine than necessary. It does nothing to cool the heat creeping up my neck.
“And then he starts cooking.” Zoe lowers her voice, leaning forward, tucking her thin hair behind her ears. “That’s when it really happens.”
Of course it does.
“He treats the ingredients like they’re sacred,” her sister adds, rearranging the cooking utensils on her station.
Sacred like a secret cult.
“The way he presses into the dough,” another murmurs. “Slow. Precise. Unhurried.”
My grip tightens on the glass. I absolutely do not need this visual.
“And when he folds something,” a third voice breathes, tilting her head. “Gentle, like he’s coaxing it.”
I swallow.
Hard.
“Then he slaps.” A grin and a half gasp from the woman in the middle. “Once. Twice. Sharp. Confident.”
Heat pools low, unwelcome and unmistakable.
“That sound,” someone else whispers, fingers twirling a napkin, eyes wide. “Every time.”
I glance at the door, briefly considering escape.
“And he never rushes.” Jaclyn runs her finger around the rim of her wine glass. “He takes his time, savoring the process.”
