I know Taylor is still upset. She just needs time to unwind.
Somewhere near Santa Barbara, Taylor kicks off her shoes and folds one leg under herself in the passenger seat. The sun is already starting to dip, painting the sky in streaks of orange and soft pink as traffic thins the farther we get from the city.
Her hand drifts over the center console until her fingers bump mine.
They lace together without either of us looking and we drive the rest of the way like that.
The closer we get to her apartment, the more the static of the week fades. There’s none of production’s chaos here. Just the quiet hum of the road and the warmth of a beautiful girl’s hand in mine.
By the time we pull into her parking lot, the tension that usually lives in my shoulders has disappeared entirely.
Taylor glances over at me as I cut the engine. “You realize you’re stuck here for five days, right?”
“I’m aware.”
“You’re going to get bored. I have to work.”
I huff out a quiet laugh. “I’ve seen how messy your kitchen is, Taylor. There’s plenty there to keep me busy.”
She rolls her eyes, but the corner of her mouth lifts.
Inside, her apartment welcomes us home. And it does feel like home, though I suspect that has more to do with the way we keep drifting toward each other every chance we get.
The week settles into a rhythm faster than I expect.
Mornings start with coffee strong enough to wake the dead and Taylor leaning against the counter in one of my borrowed T-shirts while she scrolls through recipe notes on her phone.
Afternoons disappear in a haze of flour and butter.
Her kitchen isn’t built for two bakers, but we make it work. If I’m honest, I don’t mind the tight space.
It gives me the perfect excuse to brush against her. A light graze of her hip. A gentle kiss pressed to the delicate spot where her neck meets her shoulder.
Her kitchen might actually be my favorite place to work.
Bowls crowd the counter while the mixer groans through batch after batch of practice recipes. At one point we manage to coat the floor in powdered sugar after a poorly timed bump of my elbow.
Taylor laughs so hard she has to brace herself against the fridge.
I spend the next ten minutes cleaning it up while she sits on the counter swinging her legs and offering deeply unhelpful commentary.
“You missed a spot.”
“I absolutely did not.”
“Right there by your foot.”
I glare up at her.
She grins, eyes sparkling and I snap the towel at her legs in retaliation.
Evenings slide into something easy.
Takeout containers pile up on the coffee table while we trade bites and argue about technique. Sometimes we watch old episodes of other baking shows and critique the bakers as if we aren’t going to be in that same position in a few days.
Sometimes we don’t turn the TV on at all, and I spend my time pulling my name from Taylor’s lips. She happily reciprocates, and I’m proud to say I haven’t embarrassed myself again the way I did the first time I had my mouth between her thighs.
In the middle of the week, Kara stops by after their shift.
