Wren watches my hand, intent in a way that makes me think he’s not really looking at the dough anymore. His gaze drifts to my fingers, then my mouth.
He laughs and goes back to the dough. We split it into two discs, wrap them, and tuck them in the fridge. While they chill, I pull the cherries closer and set him to pitting them. That turns out to be a mistake.
Cherry juice gets everywhere. Absolutely everywhere.
Wren looks down at his stained fingers. “I’m not sure I’m very good at this.”
“You’re doing well, just messy. My grandma used to say the messier the more love it contained.” Why the hell did I say that?
Wren nods and takes it in stride.
We work side by side, shoulders bumping, while I talk him through the filling. Cherries, sugar, lemon zest, a squeeze of juice, cornstarch, a little vanilla, a tiny splash of almond extract. He leans over the bowl to smell it and makes an indecent noise.
“Smells so good. This is what summer should always smell like. You and me in the kitchen making cherry tarts.”
That sounds perfect, and I want that too.
Wren laughs, then rises onto his toes and kisses me.
It’s soft at first. Just a press of his mouth to mine, sweet and slow and cherry scented from all the cherries he had to taste just to make sure they were good. I melt into it before I can stop myself, one hand landing on his waist while the other braces on the counter beside him. He tastes like sugar and summer and Wren. My favorite combination, apparently.
When he pulls back, I chase him a little before my brain catches up.
Wren grins when he meets my eyes. “I’ve been wanting to do that a very long time.”
I kiss him again.
This time he laughs into my mouth before hooking his fingers into the front of my apron and hauling me closer. The kiss turns warmer, deeper, but still sweet. Nothing frantic. Nothing like the hunger that’s lived in me for weeks. Just Wren, kissing me like he has all the time in the world and wants to spend it here. With me.
When we finally part, I rest my forehead against his and breathe.
“We still have to finish the tarts,” I murmur.
Wren hums. “Do we? Your mom and sister were kind of assholes. We could save the tarts for ourselves and eat them in front of them.”
“That would be mean.” But I can’t stop the laugh.
I slide my hands to his hips and squeeze. I kiss the corner of his mouth. We could keep kissing for a little longer.
“Maybe you’re right,” Wren says.
I smile against his lips. He’s so damn sweet.
We roll out the crusts together once the dough is chilled. I show him how to flour the counter properly, how to turn the dough between passes of the rolling pin so it doesn’t stick, how to ease it into the tart pans without stretching it. He tears one by accident and looks horrified until I show him how to patch it with scraps.
“Thank you for saving me.” He pecks a kiss to my cheek and we go back to filling the tart pans.
Once the shells are filled, I teach him how to make the lattice top. His first few strips are uneven and one of them snaps in half. He curses in Fae.
I bark out a laugh. “What was that?”
“An insult to the strip of dough and all its ancestors.”
“Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
“Oh, I’d never curse you.” He carefully lays another strip across the tart.
By the time the tarts are assembled and brushed with egg wash, the counter is a disaster. Flour everywhere. Cherry juice on both our aprons. A smear of butter on Wren’s forearm. The kitchen has absolutely seen cleaner days.
