I snap back to myself so fast I almost knock the bowl of cream onto the floor. “Just focused.”
He hums, his smirk growing. “Uh-huh.”
I spin toward the sink, flipping on the cold water so hard it splashes up the front of my dress. Fantastic. I press my wrists under the stream, trying to cool down, trying to regain some kind of control over my own brain.
Behind me, Ben chuckles under his breath.
“Told you this would be fun.”
The bastard is enjoying this.
“You’re surprisingly good at that,” I mutter, focusing very hard on my own pastry, trying not to acknowledge the way his hands move, the way his shoulders flex, the way my brain is spiralling straight into the gutter.
Ben doesn’t look up.
“Always been good with my hands.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Heat explodes under my skin.
I am not losing this round. Two can play that game.
Keeping my face completely unreadable, I dip my own finger into the cream. Slowly.
Then I drag my finger past my lips, tasting it.
Ben’s jaw flexes.
I suck the cream off my finger slowly, deliberately, before pulling it free.
“Not bad,” I murmur. “Could use more vanilla.”
Ben doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
His grip on the piping bag tightens.
For the first time tonight, I have the upper hand. My victory is short lived.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP!
The smoke alarm screeches through the kitchen.
“Shit!”
I whirl around, heart slamming, yanking open the oven door. Thick smoke billows out, curling toward the ceiling, the last batch of choux buns charred to hell.
Ben laughs, low and amused. Not helping.
“Maybe you should’ve set a timer, chef.”
“Oh, shut up,” I snap, reaching for the tray with a towel in my hand and hiss as the heat bites into my hand as it catches the oven shelf.
Ben’s smirk vanishes.
“Lila.” His voice sharpens. “Did you just—”
“I’m fine,” I mutter, shaking my hand out, ignoring the sting. “It’s nothing—”
But Ben’s already moving.
