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I want to kiss her. Pull that bottom lip between my teeth.

Margo sits, perching on a nearby crate.

I hum in approval and take the flour bag into the kitchen. When she doesn’t follow after a few seconds, I peek into the pantry.

Margo has her head in her hands.

“Margo?” I kneel in front of her, hands hovering over her hips. “What’s wrong?”

“What if I can’t do this?” she whispers. “What if I mess it all up? Or worse, what if I can’t finish at all⁠—”

I clap my hand over her mouth.

She squeaks, muffled behind my palm. Her brown eyes sparkle as she searches my face.

“You’re not going to mess it up. You’re going to do amazing, angel.”

The pet name slips out of my mouth and I curse inwardly.

Don’t be too much, Marcus. You’ll scare her away.

I slowly drop my hand from her mouth and she doesn’t slap me.

That’s something, I guess.

My hands land lightly on her knees. She’s wearing thick black tights that stretch across her thighs and an oversized sweater.

“How do you know that?” she asks, voice husky and low.

“Because your muffin was the best pastry I’ve ever tasted,” I say honestly. “And I don’t even like sweets.”

She darts her eyes across my face as if searching for deceit, pouting more.

I can’t help myself. I slide my hands up her thighs, squeezing the flesh there.

Margo gasps softly and I look up at her.

“Is this okay?”

“It’s very okay,” she murmurs, looking down at my hands on her thighs. “We’re not in public, though.”

That’d been her wish. To have her thighs praised, worshipped. In public. Unashamed. But without embarrassing her.

That’s a bit of a pickle, but I’ll figure it out.

I let out a low chuckle. “Consider it a trial run. Like your pavilion pastries.”

My hands move higher and Margo’s breath catches.

“The others will be here soon,” she reminds me.

I glance at my watch, not moving my hands from her thighs.

“We’ve still got an hour. A lot can happen in an hour.”

I move one hand from her thigh to reach back and shut the door before putting it back.

“Marcus—”