His chuckle is low, warm. Dangerous. “Would you?”
I roll my eyes, refusing to answer that.
He finally moves, but not without dragging things out, stretching, rolling his shoulders, making his way to the sink with an irritating, slow swagger.
I regret everything.
The second he turns on the tap, I exhale sharply, rubbing my temples. The choux is in the oven. I just need to focus.
I glance at the counter. Right. Whipped cream. We need to prep the filling and then, like some divine, horrifying revelation, it hits me.
We have to pipe the cream into the choux buns.
I physically stop.
I blink at the mixing bowl, the piping bag sitting next to it like a loaded weapon.
How did I not realise this was the worst possible thing to make?
Ben’s voice pulls me out of my spiral. “You okay over there?”
I snap my head up. Crap.
“Fine,” I say too quickly. I grab the cream, shoving it in front of me like some kind of shield. It’s fine. Everything is fine.
Ben dries his hands, walking back over, glancing at what’s left to do. His smirk returns the second he sees the piping bag.
I feel the exact moment he pieces it together.
He picks up the piping bag, turning it over in his hands. His thumb pressing against the bag just enough to test the pressure.
“So,” he drawls, flicking his gaze to me. “You want me to fill them up with cream?”
I short-circuit.
Because he says it with zero shame, zero hesitation, like this isn’t the single worst baking decision I have ever made in my life.
I lock my jaw, I am not giving him the satisfaction. I am not reacting.
Instead, I glare daggers at him. “Yes, Ben. You take the nozzle, put it inside, and squeeze.”
His lips twitch, barely, but I catch it.
Ben tilts his head, rolling up his sleeves a little higher, exposing strong forearms, the flex of tendons, veins trailingalong tanned skin. He grips the piping bag like he’s done this a thousand times before, adjusting his stance, focusing in a way that makes my stomach tighten.
He does it, slow, steady pressure, filling the pastry shell in one smooth, practiced movement.
I should not be watching this.
I should not be noticing the way his fingers curl around the bag, the effortless control, the slight furrow of concentration in his brow.
I should not be feeling my entire body burn from the inside out.
But I am.
I am dying.
Ben lifts a brow without looking at me. “You’re very quiet, Lila.”
