“Sweetness, I have absolutely no idea how tobloom yeast, or what that even means, so you’re not the slightest bit arrogant. You’re just observant. Dry ingredients I might be able to handle a bit better. I know what those are.” His smile settles the tension in my gut.
Tightening my apron over my nice new Amare outfit, I get my recipe book and show him. “This is what we’re making. I’ll get the yeast blooming.”
“Wow. You don’t know how to bloom yeast.” Morana scoffs, hands plunged in soapy water as she takes care of the pans that don’t fit in the dishwasher. “Lameee.”
Instead of getting offended, Lukas chuckles. “I’ll learn. Clara’s gonna teach me.”
I am?
“Such wisdom would be wasted on you,” Morana snarks, no fear for her life. Lukas is, like, eight of her. What is she doing?
Kyran drops the washcloth he was using to wipe down the table on the counter. “Do you have to bully everyone?”
“Why? Jealous?”
“Maybe,” he mutters.
“Sisters bully. Get over it.”
Shoving his hands in his pockets, Kyran twists on his heel. “I’m going back to bed.”
“Need me to tuck you in?” Morana ribs.
Expression cool and deadly, Kyran holds his sister-in-law’s gaze. “If you ever come within a foot of my bed again, Morana, I am pulling you into it and not letting go. Goodnight.”
Oh. My. Goodness.
Forbidden romance??
Am I witnessing the buds of a forbidden romance? The scandal! Theintrigue.
Before I can tell if Morana’s blushing, Lukas’s broad chest steps into my line of sight. “You labeled the dry ingredients separately by color,” he murmurs. “That’s so cute. Let’s see… Flour first. How many…grams?” He straightens up and lifts his brows. “Feels like I’m playing with the big kids now.”
Blushing, I clarify the practicality so I don’t come off as pretentious, “Weight measurements are more precise. I didn’t want to risk messing up with standard.”
“Smart.” Lukas nods, getting one of the three scales I couldn’t stop him from buying at the store yesterday. I suppose it’s a good thing now. We won’t have to fumble through sharing one while I get the yeast portion together.
Peace broken only by the running dishwasher and the sound of Morana clunking pots and pans saturates the kitchen, lulling me into a—likely false—sense of security. Yet every time I glancetoward Lukas, he’s diligently and carefully weighing ingredients to add to the mixing bowl.
Even after Morana’s finished cleaning up and left, the stillness remains. As the thumping mixer pulls the dough ball together with enthusiasm, calm lingers.
Lukas isn’t being weird like last night. He’s not being uncomfortable. I’m okay. This is fine. Good, even. Fun, maybe? I’m going on a second full day without having been molested. Maybe I can use one of the other journals he bought for me and make a little sticker calendar to keep track of my days without molestation. Once I get enough stickers lined up, surely I’ll be able to begin trusting the sense of security.
I hope, anyway.
I don’t know what I’ll do if I can never shake this anxiety.
“You’re doing a great job,” Lukas tells me, and my shoulders bunch.
Cautious, I fix my attention on him.
Leaning back against the kitchen island, he watches the mixer with a smile. The corners of his eyes crinkle. “I’m excited for dinner.”
Tension filters out of me. “I was thinking I’d make crème brûlée for dessert.”
His teeth flash in a bright smile, and he references the little comments he saw dappled all over the crème brûlée recipe in my notebook last night. “Fire.”
I wince, chewing my lip. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”
