I rest a hip against the counter and cross my arms over my chest. “This joke is getting really old, you know.”
He smiles and I swear I see his dimple for half a second, there and gone in the blink of an eye. Wordlessly, Reid walks to my sink and turns on the water, then pumps soap into his hand.
“Stop wasting my water,” I command him. He scoffs and continues rinsing the soap off his hands. I am ashamed to admit I watch for entirely too long.
“I’m washing my hands so they’re sanitary,” he finally says.
“Use someone else’s kitchen to wash off the subway germs.”
He turns off the water and dries his hands on my dish towel before flicking it over his shoulder. I’m sure it’s a habit he picked up at work and didn’t even realize he was doing, but it still catches me off guard how in his element he looks here, in my kitchen, with my floral pink dish towel slung over his broad shoulder.
“First of all,” he starts, breaking me out of my trance. “I took an Uber here. Second, I’m washing my hands to help you.”
“You . . . what?”
He’s already studying my to-do list. After a beat, he finally lifts his eyes to mine and I swear I forget how to breathe when he says, “I’m helping you.”
“Why?”
“Because it wouldn’t be a fair competition if you just dropped out and panic-purchased a premade grocery store cake.”
I stare at him in disbelief. “Isn’t it cheating if you help make them? I’m sure that’s against some competition rule.”
“You mean for the competition you and I challenged each other to? I think we get to make the rules.”
“You’re helping me for a fair competition? Not so you get to brag to everyone and look like a hero?”
“That’s just an added bonus.” He steps out of my touch and I drop my hand so quickly you’d think it was on fire. Which is the exact opposite of how it feels without his contact now. I draw in a breath and turn to find him lifting my stack of recipe cards and shuffling through them. Without looking up from the cards, he points to the mixer. “Which type of cake is this? You have three recipes here.”
“White with raspberry filling.”
He lets out a low whistle. “Alright, well, we better get to it.”
Reid tries to take a step around me, but I reach a hand out and press it against his chest. I swear his pulse thrums under my fingers, but I don’t have time to focus on that right now. Or on the way his reaction makes my own heart stutter. The muscles in his throat work as he swallows.
My voice is low and fragile as I repeat, “Why?”
His eyes bore into mine for a moment, almost like he’s really debating his next words. Finally, quietly, he says, “Because you need it.”
There’s something in me that wants to refuse his help. Partly because I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of needing him. Okay, mostly that. But also because I’m, unfortunately, a very prideful woman. I don’t want to ask for help, and if I do, I have a very small, very trusted circle of exactly three people I would ask, and Reid is not in that circle.
The rejection is on the tip of my tongue, but another glance at the clock, coupled with the list I’ve been reciting in my head all morning, has me biting the word back and nodding to him.
“And because these are supposed to be the best desserts I’ve ever had in my entire miserable life, aren’t they?”
I roll my eyes, a new fire of encouragement burning in me. Because now I really do need his extra set of hands to get this done, and to prove that I am, in fact, an excellent baker. “Okay, fine. But you’re my sous chef here. I call the shots, and I get the glory.”
He smirks. “Obviously.” He sets the cards down and leans against the counter, crossing his arms over his broad chest. The pose has me considering kicking him out, because how the hell am I supposed to focus when he looks so annoyingly good in a white T-shirt and jeans? “What’s first, boss?”
“Boss?” I muse. “I could get used to that.”
“I wouldn’t.”
With a laugh, I pull my favorite pink apron over my head and tie it around my back. “You add the eggs and vanilla, I’ll handle the dry mixture for this.”
“Perfect.” He drags the carton closer to himself, checking the recipe before cracking them in one by one. My eyes are stuck on his expert actions, the way his fingers move, the flick of his wrist. When did baking become a turn-on for me?
Reid clears his throat and I jump, fumbling with my stack of measuring cups and dropping them all on the counter. I stop them from rolling to the floor before glaring up at him. A smirk plays on his lips and I narrow my eyes at him, mostly because I’m embarrassed and the best way to cope with being busted is to blame him.
