She retrieved the two items and watched while Mitch doctored his cup of tea, placing a heaping spoonful of sugar into the hot liquid before stirring until it dissolved.
After waiting a silent moment for it to cool, he drew in an unhurried sip. It was as if Faith could observe the liquid traveling through him, witnessing the way Mitch seemed to thaw before her very eyes. Every muscle in his body relaxed under the comforting warmth.
“This is delicious, Faith,” Mitch complimented. “It’s like a hug in a mug.”
“I wish I could take the credit but it’s a blend I picked up last time I was out of town. But I do make killer shortbread that pairs nicely with it. Unfortunately, I don’t have any on hand. Or at the bakery, for that matter. I’ve been so preoccupied with the whole Sweetheart Soiree selection that I—”
“It’s really that big of a deal to be chosen?” He cut her off, but it wasn’t rude like an interruption, just his curiosity getting the better of him.
“It’s a big deal to me.” She shrugged. This was where she could confide in him by admitting that she often felt the need to prove herself. This need to demonstrate that she could fill her father’s boots in more than just a last name. He had been chosen year after year, and sometimes, she questioned if she would be selected merely because she was the man’s daughter. Yet, deep down, she knew Josephine Major wasn’t the type of woman to do anything out of obligation. She was in charge of this year’s soiree, and she wouldn’t settle for anything less than culinary perfection.
“I think your kisses were delicious,” Mitch said without thought, evidently. Because if hehadthought through that phrase before uttering it, he would have had the good sense to keep his mouth closed. “Your meringue kisses, I mean,” he backpedaled, but it was too late. Faith was already thinking things she really shouldn’t. Not about Mitch. She could almost feel the color draining from her face.
“They’re not where I want them,” she said, pitching the last of her tea into the sink. She pushed back the faucet’s handle and watched the water mix with the drink as it swirled down the drain. “I just need to practice.”
Mitch snickered behind her.
“What?” She’d spun around so swiftly that the ends of her hair fanned out like a curtain.
“I know we’re talking about food, but it sounds like we’re talking about something else.”
“I do not need to practice kissing,” she blurted, knowing the color had returned to her cheeks in full force. She was probably as pink as the roses on her counter from her good friend Trinity. “I’ve had plenty of practice in that area.”
“Glad to hear it.” He gave her a quick nod.
“I mean, it’s been a while, but I haven’t completely forgotten.” Why was she still talking? “It’s like riding a bike, right? Or baking a cake.”
“I don’t think people use that analogy. Baking a cake isn’t a universally applicable thing.”
“Either way, what I’m trying to say is that even while I haven’t actually kissed anyone in quite some time, it’s not like I’ve completely forgotten how.”
“I never said you had.”
“Right.” She straightened her spine. Smoothed her hands down her shirt. “Of course. I don’t know why I can’t stop.”
“Stop what?” Mitch made his way over to the sink, the contents of his cup of tea drained now, too. He reached around Faith for the faucet to rinse his mug, bracketing her within his arms. She couldn’t escape. Suddenly, there was nowhere to go.
She looked up at him. “I can’t stop talking.”
He had placed his cup into the sink basin, but his hands remained on the counter, effectively pinning her in place. “I can think of one way.”
How could this be happening? Two almost-kiss encounters in as many days? Only there was no rescue bag of flour to be found, no distraction to ward off the incoming action.
“Mitch…” His name came out on a raspy breath.
“We could…” He leaned in so close she could smell the familiar lavender shampoo clinging to his freshly washed hair. “…just be silent.”
Faith slumped against the counter. “What?”
“We could enjoy the peace and quiet.”
Had she really read everything so wrong? There was something in his gaze just now, a yearning that matched her own. But somehow, Mitch had been able to snap out of it—shake off its grip—while Faith had fallen completely under its spell.
“I’m not sure I know how to be quiet.” She admitted when he pushed off from the counter and stepped out of her personal space.
“I’m not sure you do, either,” he agreed with a punctuated laugh. “You’re a chatterbox.”
“So what?” Wringing a dishtowel between her hands, she took out her frustration on the poor piece of fabric. “What’s so wrong with being talkative?”
