When I finally return to St. Michael’s to collect my empty container, I expect to find it still half-full. Church basement baked goods rarely disappear completely.
Mrs. Delacroix’s lemon meringue pie sat untouched for three days last month.
Instead, I find three men standing around a spotless pan in the parish hall kitchen.
Marcus sees me first. His dark eyes lock onto mine, and something in his expression makes my breath catch.
He’s wearing a black button-down with the sleeves rolled up, exposing those tattooed forearms that I’ve caught myself staring at more times than I can count.
Saints and sinners inked into his olive skin, beautiful and dangerous.
“Charlie.” My name in his rough voice sends heat straight through me.
Adrian turns from where he’s been examining the empty container like it holds the secrets of the universe.
His gray eyes track my movement as I step into the kitchen, and I’m suddenly hyperaware of how my vintage sundress clings to my curves, how the neckline dips just low enough to be interesting.
His jaw clenches, and I watch his hands curl into fists at his sides.
“You made these?” Elijah asks, and his angel-boy smile has an edge to it that makes my skin flush hot.
He’s leaning against the counter, golden hair slightly mussed, and all I can think about is how that hair felt tangled in my fingers last night.
“My grandmother’s recipe.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “I stress-bake sometimes. Helps me think.”
“These weren’t just good.” Marcus moves closer, and I catch the scent of his cologne mixed with something darker, more masculine. “They were perfect. Light, flavorful, exactly the right amount of sweetness.”
He’s standing close enough now that I can see the pulse beating in his throat, can feel the heat radiating from his body.
His eyes drop to my mouth, then lower, tracing the curve of my neck, the swell of my breasts beneath my dress.
When his gaze meets mine again, the hunger there makes my knees weak.
“Where did you learn to bake like that?” Adrian’s voice is carefully controlled, but I hear the strain beneath it.
He hasn’t moved from his position by the counter, but his knuckles are white where he grips the edge.
“Grandma Rose.” I reach for the empty pan, needing something to do with my hands. “She taught me everything.”
My fingers brush Adrian’s as I take the container, and electricity shoots up my arm.
His breath catches, barely audible, but I hear it. Our eyes meet, and for a moment the kitchen disappears.
There’s only his gray eyes burning into mine, the memory of his body pressed against me in his office, the way he quoted scripture between kisses like he was trying to pray away his desire.
“This isn’t just amateur baking,” Elijah says, breaking the moment. He waves at a plated cinnamon roll, the last one, and pushes off the counter, moving toward me with that fluid grace that makes everything look like choreography. “This is real skill. Real talent.”
He stops close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his crystalline blue eyes.
Close enough that I can see the faint stubble on his jaw, remember how it felt scraping against my inner thighs.
“You saved me the last one?” I manage to ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Of course.” His smile turns knowing, intimate, like we’re sharing a secret the others can’t hear. “I wanted to make sure you knew how much we appreciated them.”
The way he saysappreciatedmakes it sound like he’s talking about something else entirely.
Something that has nothing to do with cinnamon rolls and everything to do with the way his hands felt on my body last night.
