Um, your life is already a shit show, and you don’t need to add sleeping with your landlord to that list. Especially since you literally don’t have anywhere to sleep.
“You done with the stand mixer?” I said in a rush, picking up my bowl of egg whites.
“Yes—”
“Good,” I said, literally shoving him out of the way and trying not to think about how close my hands were to his belt band. “Grab the spice grinder and grind up half a cup of crushed red pepper.”
I could feel Matt’s eyes on me while I beat the egg yolks and sugar then whipped the egg whites into stiff peaks. While the stand mixer churned, I heated heavy cream, milk, cloves, cinnamon, and nutmeg to a low boil in the two large stockpots. As I went back and forth between the stockpots and the stand mixer, I sniffled as the smell of the powdered pepper floated in the air.
The whirring of the grinder stopped, and Matt appeared in front of me. He cupped my face then dabbed at my eyes with a damp rag.
“Maybe I should have done that outside.”
Ugh, what are we doing?
“Well,” I said, not wanting his hands to leave me but knowing that was probably the smartest option, “it’s a little cold for that.”
“It’s snowing, so it’s not that cold,” he said simply. His hands floated down to my shoulders then my arms. “What’s next?”
I directed him to dump out the bags of flour into the large stand mixer bowl and added the shredded cheddar, butter, salt, and pepper.
“Just babysit that until it turns crumbly then add the half and half.”
I checked on my whipped egg whites, scraping down the sides while the stand mixer whirred. The sound was normally comforting. Now, all it sounded like wasYou’re alone with an attractive man in his kitchen. Also, he’s wearing a snowman apron, which is exactly your type!
The reality was I wasn’t thinking straight. I was tired. I snuck a sip of bourbon then began to slowly add the egg yolk and sugar mixture to the stockpot. The eggnog turned a pale golden color and thickened. I turned down the heat and added the vanilla, more spices, rum, and bourbon. Then added even more alcohol for both the eggnog and me because we were worth it.
“It smells great,” Matt said from right behind me.
“Can’t beat spice and bourbon.”
He wrapped his arms around me.
Okay, so we’re doing this.
To be fair, you were the one that brought up hand jobs.
But it didn’t feel strange. Instead, it felt natural, like I fit perfectly against him.
Probably all the bourbon you were drinking.
“Thank you,” he murmured. I half wondered whether he was going to turn me around and kiss me.
“Don’t thank me yet,” I said lightly. “We haven’t been approved.”
“Maybe we should add a little more alcohol just to make sure the townspeople are extra amenable to my new development,” he said, picking up the bottle of rum and tipping it into the pot.
“How are my cheese straws?” I asked. Matt stepped back, and I inspected the dough and did a taste test.
“Perfect!” I packed the sharp-smelling dough into a cookie press with a star-shaped disk and tested the consistency. It came out in a perfect thick strand.
I handed the press to Matt. “Think you can manage?”
“I’m very good with my hands,” Matt promised.
Well, then.
40
