“Ouch.” He sucks in a breath.
I shrug in response as I open the oven. “Ask any girl. Solo dance parties are amazing because of the solo part.”
“Teagan, you need an oven mitt,” he says as he quickly shuts the oven.
“I know that, Mr. Overprotective. I was just about to look for it,” I say with a hint of sass, but it’s grown on me, and every time he gets this way, my heart beats wildly in my chest.
“Sorry, I just want you to be safe.”
“I know, you care and want to help. But I’ve got this,” I tell him as I slide the oven mitt on and retrieve the loaf from the oven to place it on a cooling rack.
“What did you make?” he asks, leaning over. “It smells amazing.”
“A blueberry banana bread. Where are the knives?”
“I can’t believe you waitedthislong to kill me,” he jokes, making me laugh.
“Blueberry needs you. I’d never do that to them.”
He shakes his head as he walks over to the pantry door and returns with a knife.
He carefully cuts slices and places them on a plate, my eyes fixating on how the veins in his hand flex with the movement.
I need to get a grip.
Quentin slides over a plate with the bread on it to me, but I place my hand on it and push it back toward him.
“Nope, you try the bread first. It’s my first time making it.”
He narrows his eyes at me as his lips pop open. “You really are trying to kill me, aren’t you?”
I shove his shoulder, earning me a throaty laugh.
“I’ve never baked before and I’m nervous. You go first and tell me if it’s any good.”
“You should try it first. You’re the one who made it.”
“Yeah, but if it’s gross, I’m worried Blueberry will revolt and have me keeling over the toilet, so…”
“Fine,” he relents, making me internally shimmy with vengeance because I won the small battle.
Quentin uses a fork to grab a piece of the bread, eyes me carefully, then takes a small bite. He chews it thoroughly for a beat, then promptly spits it out into the sink.
“What a glowing review. I’m glad you went first.”
He grabs a glass and fills it with water, rinsing his mouth out a few times before responding.
“I think you may have mixed up the sugar and salt.”
“Oh no. They look similar. There’s definitely a chance I did that.” I scrunch my face in an apology. “Well, it’s safe to say baking is not my hobby.”
“Leave the baking to me.” He chuckles, then leans his forearms on the island and gently asks, “Why are you trying to find a hobby?”
“As an athlete, you’re probably aware that our careers don’t leave much room for anything else. Especially if you’ve been training since you could walk basically. So now that I’m no longer training, I need something for me. The problem is, I don’t know what I like to do,” I explain, my voice growing quiet by the end. I hate talking about personal things, and yet around Quentin it seems to fall from my lips with ease.
“Well, you could cross dancing off that list too.”
My mouth falls open in offence. “Fuck you.” I laugh as I say it, taking the malice out of the saying.
