I snap them back up just as his finger touches the side of my head. “But it looks like you’re going to be fine too.”
“I am.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
He smiles.
The ice has melted into a damp chill in my palm. “I’m going to go put this in the sink.”
He grabs the bowl and my arm, stopping me. “I got it.”
Our fingers meet briefly when he takes it. Water trails down my wrist and along the inside of my arm.
His thumb follows the line along my skin. The motion is unhurried. He wipes the water away, then brings his thumb to his mouth.
I can’t tear my eyes away as his tongue comes out and licks the water away.
“Delicious.”
My chest tightens.
“I don’t invite people up to help me bake. Especially not women.”
“Never?” The word barely makes it past my lips—not when I can’t tear my eyes from his lips.
“Never.”
What does this mean?
What is he even saying?
“But you invited me.” It’s more a question than an obvious observation.
“Yes.” He gives me no more when I want so much more.
“Why?”
His eyes dart to my lips, and every part of me he’s touched warms. “You asked good questions.”
“I did not.”
“You didn’t look like you knew what you were doing.”
“I didn’t, but isn’t that the point of taking a lesson? To be taught?”
“And I taught you.”
I smile. “Yeah, well, I never say yes to random invitations to bake.”
“Never?” My smile widens as he says my words back to me.
“Never. Especially from men who don’t wear shirts.”
“I was wearing an apron.”
“Hardly.”
