“At midnight?”
He chuckles. “As long as you don’t bend over in those short-shorts, we’ll be good.”
I glance down at my cotton, wide-legged pajama shorts. “These old things?” I pinch the side and let the material flutter back.
He growls. “Yes. Those old things are fucking sexy.”
I laugh.
He doesn’t.
The way he’s looking at me says if we don’t start mixing something soon, it’s not gonna be ingredients.
I grab a mixing bowl off the counter. “What’s the first ingredient?”
I knock a spoon off the counter, and it clatters to the floor.
The sound explodes through the quiet kitchen like a gunshot
I freeze, straining my ears to listen past the clattering. Footsteps. Paws. Anything.
He doesn’t flinch. He reaches out and stills the spoon with his bare foot.
“You’re not helping,” he said mildly.
“I’m very helpful.” I hold the bowl against my chest like a shield.
“You somehow managed to add too much flour to the cinnamon bun filling, and the mixture was pasty instead of gooey.”
“I followed yourinstructions.”
“You rolled each one so tight, the centres popped and baked unevenly.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Are you implying I’m a bad baker?”
“Am I wrong?”
I shake my head, smiling. “I’m also bad at cooking.”
“I’m not surprised.” He takes the bowl and sets it on the counter.
“I’ve burned rice.”
He makes a sound between a chuckle and a snort.
“Twice,” I add.
“Alright. You. Here.” His arms slide under my arms, and he lifts me.
I let out a squeak of surprise as he sets me squarely on the counter. My legs automatically spread to accommodate him between them, and my shorts rise high.
He presses his palms flat on the counter on either side of me. “Now be a good girl and sit here.”
I close my legs around him and squeeze him closer. “Or you get up here with me.”
He leans in and captures my mouth with his. It’s slow and sweet—the opposite of every hungry kiss we’ve shared.
There’s no rush this time.
