I blink at him, whisk paused midair. “What? Why are you confused?”
He lifts his hands in surrender, a soft grin on his face. “Nothing bad. Just…usually when you bake, you follow a recipe.”
“I am following a recipe,” I argue.
“Where?”
“Well, I don’t have it physically, but I have it somewhat in my head.”
“Somewhatis another word for guessing,” he suggests gently.
“Not necessarily. I mean, what did people do before Pinterest? Just dumped and poured and hoped for the best.”
“No, baby, they wrote it down.”
I glare at him and throw a crumpled paper towel at his head. “Have some faith in me, Mason. I just cooked with your mom and Addie yesterday. I’m not stupid.”
“I’m not saying you’re stupid. I’m just worried about sending the new parents back to the hospital because of food poisoning or something.”
I take a deep breath because I know Mason means well, and if this is something he’s concerned with, as his soon-to-be wife I need to acknowledge that and not be so defensive.
I look down at the bowl—lumpy, confused, and honestly kind of gross-looking. “You think it’s that bad?”
“I think it just needs a little…teamwork.” He comes around the counter and touches my back, then he pulls out his phone.
While I wait for him to find an actual recipe, I clean up the mess I already made so we can start fresh.
Mason takes control of the kitchen, pulling out ingredients I didn’t already have out—along with measuring utensils I forgot about—and I just watch him mix everything together like he’s a head chef of his own cooking show. He moves around me like he’s done this a hundred times—quiet, steady, asking me to do things so I can help, and never making me feel silly.
I scrape the batter into the pan, smoothing the top. “Okay. This might actually turn out.”
“It will,” Mason says, reaching for my waist again. “Because we followed arecipe, baby.” He pats my side and I push my butt against him.
“You giving me a hard time?”
“Nope.” He laughs. “Just being honest.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself.
The oven beeps to signify it has preheated. I slide the pan in and close the door gently. Mason’s hands find my waist again, this time bringing us face-to-face.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Of course.” His lips touch mine, slow and deliberate.
The kiss slowly builds, lazy but intense, the kind that makes time blur and thoughts scatter. His fingers slip under the hem of my shirt, just resting on my skin—warm, reassuring, reverent.
I break the kiss for air, leaning my forehead against his. His breathing matches mine, soft but unsteady.
“We’re supposed to be baking,” I whisper.
He gives the smallest smirk. “Cake’s in the oven. We’ve got time.”
I laugh softly, brushing my nose against his. “Mason…”
He kisses me again, gentle but sure. “I love you…” he murmurs. “Soon-to-be Mrs. Jennings.”
“Yeah, I know, but I’m afraid if we don’t stop, you’ll make me Mrs. Jennings right here in this kitchen.”
