“Do you want to skip the baking? We can do it another time,” I ask.
“Don’t be silly. I’m great at multitasking.” Her small hand curls around my bicep as she leads me across the floor. I’m surprised by the act of familiarity. It’s so out of character for Ginger, but I’m taking it as a good sign. Maybe she can’t keep her hands off me.If only that were true.
As we approach, Willow’s gaze darts to Ginger’s hand on my arm, and her lips press together. “Look what the cat dragged in,” she says, and Ginger releases my arm.
“How’s it going?” I ask.
“Itwasgoing great,” she drolls.
“Hi, Jordan,” Nina says, offering a soft smile.
“Hey, Nina.”
“Jordan and I are going to get to work for a few minutes and then we can help you two,” Ginger says.
“We don’t need your help. We’re here to take care of this for you,” Nina says.
“That’s okay. We’re helping anyway,” she tosses the comment over her shoulder as she walks toward the kitchen.
I follow behind her, admiring how amazing her ass looks in the black pants she’s wearing.
“I already sifted the dry ingredients together. And everything else we need is ready to go.”
“Someone’s organized,” I say.
“I try to be, but I don’t always succeed.”
“Oh, I think you probably do.” I hand her the syringe of full-spectrum cannabis oil.
“Thanks.” She points to the ingredients on the counter next to an empty bowl. “You know what to do. Get to work.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I salute her, wash my hands, then pick up the two eggs, cracking them into the bowl. I continue until everything’s been added.
Ginger hands me a large spoon. “Put those big muscles to work.”
Big muscles.A zing of satisfaction hits me. Every hour I’ve spent in the gym has paid off.
She moves over to the stove to heat the oil while I hand-mix all the wet ingredients.
After a few minutes, she returns, a small pan in her hand. She slowly pours the hot oil, giving me time to gently stir it around, until she signals for me to stop. She picks up the other bowl with the dry ingredients and slowly adds them in.
“I hope you don’t mind that I’m doing this part,” she says. “It can get messy.”
“I’m glad you are. If I were, we'd have a cloud of flour around us right now.”
She laughs. “At one point or another, it’s happened to the best of us. People learn more from making mistakes, and bakers are no different.” She snaps the beaters onto the electric mixer.
“You make it look deceptively easy,” I say.
“Thanks. That wasn’t always the case. I remember being a walking disaster at the first bakery I worked at.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I think I need to hear some details.”
She laughs, setting the beaters in the bowl. “Not happening.” The whir of the mixer fills the space between us.
My gaze trails over Ginger’s profile. With her hair pulled into a knot on the back of her head, I have an unobstructed view of the soft curve of her forehead, the straight line of her nose, and the plush bow of her lips. Her features are delicate and petite, like she is. She’s one of the kindest people I know. Always willing to lend a hand when needed, and yet never asks for anything in return.
Why does it feel like it’s only been in the past couple of weeks that I’m seeing her clearly? It’s like she’s standing in a spotlight and I’m powerless against the pull drawing me toward her.
