“I’ll supervise.”
She picks up a biscuit, dips it, lifts it out.
“That was too long,” I say.
“It was barely a second.”
“It absorbed.”
“That’s the point.”
“Not like that.”
She looks up at me, amused. “You’re very bossy for a man who is supposed to make me feel welcome in his kitchen.”
“Only way you listen to me.”
“Mm.”
I step closer, guiding with my voice rather than my hands. “In. Out. Like that.”
She follows the instruction. This time I nod. “Better.”
“High praise,” she murmurs.
“Don’t get used to it.”
We work side by side, layering carefully. Biscuit. Cream. Repeat. Our hands brush more often than necessary. Neither of us comments on it.
When the tray is finished I slide it into the fridge and close the door, grounding myself in the click of it. When I turn back, she’s closer than she was before.
“Thank you,” I say, quieter than intended.
“For what?”
“For staying.”
She looks at me like she’s deciding whether to make a joke or take the moment seriously. Before she can do either, my eyes catch on something small and entirely unfair.
“You’ve got cream on your mouth,” I say.
Her hand flies up instantly. “No I don’t.”
“You do,” I say. “Right there. Corner.”
She checks again, slower this time, suspicious. “You’re lying.”
“I am not lying,” I reply. “You have mascarpone on your face.”
She narrows her eyes. “I did not sneak a taste.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
“You absolutely implied it.”
“I observed evidence,” I say. “That looks very much like theft.”
She scoffs. “You told me I needed to taste the tiramisu.”
