So, she did the only thing she could think to do. She grabbed the nearest item to serve as a barrier between them.
The only problem was, that thing that was within arm’s reach was a sack of flour. A fifty-pound sack of flour, which—as luck would have it—proved to be too heavy to simply hoist into her grip.
She bumbled and fumbled for what felt like an eternity, awkwardly attempting to keep the open bag upright in her arms. With every jostle, bits of white powder would sail into the air. It was a light flurry of flour, until things quickly shifted when she lost her grip on the bag and it completely slipped from her hold, crashing to the floor before sending a volcano of white into the skies.
She couldn’t see Mitch, let alone anything in front of her, her vision obscured by the swirling flour that had yet to settle. But when it finally did and things came into focus, she choked on a cough that quickly morphed into a laugh she could scarcely control.
Mitch could have been auditioning for Frosty the Snowman at the Snowdrift Summit Theatre. From the crown of his head to the tips of his work boots, he had been completely doused in flour, no inch of him left free from the white stuff.
“Mitch!” Faith’s hand clamped over her mouth. “Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry.”
Shaking like a dog after a bath, Mitch shuddered. With both arms out at either side, he gave them a good jiggle, but a minimal amount of flour dusted off. He was completely coated.
“You’re covered,” she said, still gaping. He’d gotten the brunt of the mishap. While Faith had some flour coating her apron and sprinkled in her hair, it honestly wasn’t much more than what resulted from a typical day of baking.
But Mitch. Poor Mitch was another story.
“That’s a lot of flour,” he said, finally. Even his lips were covered, like he’d used some kind of zinc ChapStick to coat them.
“Mitch.” Faith couldn’t help but giggle. “That’s the understatement of the century.”
“Let me help you get this cleaned up.”
She looked around. Sure, there was a substantial heap of flour on the floor, spilling out from the open bag like a snowy landscape, but the good majority was covering Mitch.Hewas the one that needed cleaning up.
“I can take care of all of this.” Faith waved a hand over the powdery mess between them. “But you could probably use a change of clothesanda good shower. I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I did that. I’m so clumsy.”
“What do you have to be sorry about?” He had his hand at the collar of his shirt, working open the first button. “It was an accident.”
Was it, though? Obviously, she hadn’t meant to dump the entire bag, but she’d picked it up because she’d been terrified he was about to kiss her. If she had just reacted like a normal person—taken a simple step back or even just turned her head—none of this would be happening.
Her eyes stayed on his hands, suddenly noticing that they were moving. Moving down his shirt, one by one. Unbuttoninghis shirt.
Faith trailed every movement until his flannel was left open wide, fluttering at his sides.
Was this some sort of déjà vu, because—minus the puppy—the sight of Mitch’s abs felt too familiar, like she’d seen them before.
Mitch slipped one arm out, then the next, before folding his shirt so the clean side was on top. In a single swipe, he moved it over his face to clear the flour from it.
But Faith wasn’t really watching any of that. Her eyes were still glued to his stomach, on the muscles that contracted from the subtle effort. Was this man real? Maybe this was just another one of her inappropriate dreams. Maybe she’d passed out back at her place during her baking marathon, and she was hallucinating this experience. Because nothing about it felt real, certainly not the way the mere sight of Mitch shirtless made her legs turn to jelly like the filling in her pastries.
“You good, Faith?” Mitch rubbed his hand over his head to shake the flour from his crop of dark hair.
“I’m…I’m great.” She coughed. Maybe she’d inhaled too much flour. Maybe that was the reason for her fuzzy thoughts and dizziness.
“You look a little—”
“Pale?” she interjected. “Probably just an illusion from all the flour.”
“I was going to say flushed, actually.” There were those darn dimples again. His mouth crept into a devilish grin that she liked way too much. “Your cheeks are really pink.”
“Oh, yeah?” Faith covered her face with her palms to gauge its temperature. “Huh. Must be a sunburn.”
“In the middle of winter?” Mitch’s head tipped to one shoulder as he gave her a long look.
“You’re definitely not from around here because you’d know that sunburns out on the mountain in the winter are more common than any burn you’d ever get in the summer.”
“We’ve already established that I’m not from around here.” He was still standing in front of her in just his belted jeans, still making her heart palpitate from the unexpected sight.
