Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
I stifle a laugh, then say with a straight face, “I think you already have.”
He freezes, then turns around slowly, eyes flashing with mirth and innuendo too. “Good to know, Mabel.”
After he sets the temperature to 375º, he gets to work mixing ingredients, then stops and winces. “I forgot the salt.”
“Cabinet to the right of the stove,” I say, but of course I’m standing in front of that cabinet. “I’ll grab—”
Before I can pivot to open the cupboard, he reaches past me. “I’ve got it,” he says, in a husky voice that’s dripping with restraint.
As he stretches an arm over my shoulder, I catch the scent of him again. Campfire, and a fresh lake, but now mixed with flour and the sweet smell of brown sugar. Yep, this kitchen is too small. That’s my only explanation for why I steal a whiff of him. I want both for him to find the salt quickly and never find it at all.
As he roots around the cabinet, his chest is almost, almost touching mine. I clench my fists at my sides so I don’t impulsively grab his apron and jerk him against me. Demand another kiss. Grind against his hard-on. Is he hard?
Don’t look.
With him this close, my head is swimming with longing for a man who wants to bake for me. Who wants to prove his prowess in the kitchen. Who wants to show me what he can do with…cookies.
Has anything been sexier? Nope. It’s so hot that a soft gasp escapes my lips unbidden.
But not…unheard.
Corbin lowers his gaze, eyes locking with mine. “Your hair looks good with and without frosting in it.”
“Thanks,” I say, reaching up to touch my messy bun.
His eyes track my hand as I lift it. As I touch. As I lower it.
“Really good. The color…”
But he doesn’t finish the thought. I want to ask, What about the color? but I’m already achy all over just being near him.
I can’t rub up against my potential new business partner. I’ve got too much at stake to risk ruining it with romance. One year to make this business work, and if I start hitting on him, hot-mess me would inevitably fuck it up.
When he grabs the salt at last, I clear the fog of lust from my head. “I already know what you have in the abs department. Why don’t you show me what you’ve got in the chocolate chip cookie division?”
“I think you’ll be pleased,” he says, and the sparkle in his eyes tells me what’s coming next, “with both.”
I slip away from him, even as I dream of him fucking me while the cookies heat to 375º—the same temperature as me.
Thirty minutes later, he offers me a warm, gooey cookie. It melts on my tongue and makes me moan. “Oh my god, that’s good. That’s so good. That’s incredible.”
Pretty sure I sound like I’m coming. Pretty sure the cookie makes me feel like I am.
“Ten out of ten?” he asks.
Funny how I gave him a ten out of ten on the monkey bread, but when I utter a long and satisfied “yessss,” he seems to believe it more.
Maybe because I moaned the loudest for the chocolate chip cookies.
“Do you believe me now?” he asks as we clean up.
“That you can bake your ass off?”
“Yes.”
“Dude, you had me at the monkey bread. You didn’t have to prove it.”
“But I did,” he says, insistent, strong.
“Why?” I scrub the last measuring cup under the hot water and hand it to him to set on the rack.
“Because,” he says, as he dries it then gives me the towel. “What if I don’t just want to invest in it?”
Wait.
What?
He came over here to show me he doesn’t want to finance it? What was the point of this baking exercise?
I mentally gulp, and somehow manage to say, so stoically, I could be a hockey player, “If you don’t want to, I’ll figure something out.”
But inside, my thoughts are spinning faster than a washing machine out of whack. What can I do to salvage this? I can turn the firehouse into my ghost kitchen, and then I’ll just have to work all day, and all night, and take on more orders, and market more and harder, and maybe then someday it’ll be enough. I’ll be enough.
He shakes his head, setting a hand on my arm. “No, I mean—what if I want to do more than simply put money in it? What if I want to…” He pauses, like he’s still a little surprised by the words coming out of his mouth. “Help run it when I can.”
“Wh-what?”
That was the last thing I’d expected. Even after this macho bake-off. I figured this under one condition was male posturing. Showing me he’s got skills, so I knew he was more than the money. But I didn’t think he’d want to strap on an apron for real.