Joining me, Mila peers inside. “Oh, do we have bread? What about grilled cheeses?”
We. She said we.
“Done.” I grab cheese, butter, and a few add-ons from the fridge, bumping it closed with my hip. “Can you grab the bread?”
Nodding, Mila walks toward the breadbox I have sitting on the counter. As I’m heating the skillet, I feel her approach at my side.
“Is this what I think it is?” She gestures with the loaf of sourdough I bought during one of my last visits.
“That depends—what do you think it is?”
Rolling her eyes, Mila places the bread on the counter next to the other supplies. “It's my bread. The bread I make, I mean.”
“You would be correct, Sweet Girl.”
Half the loaf is already missing, making me glad that I have enough for a few sandwiches. I’ve never given much thought to whatdifferent types of bread there are before, but I’ll happily eat this over anything at the store any day. “I thought you just grabbed treats and stuff. I’ve never seen you get bread. I mean, look at you.” She gestures to my naked chest.
Telling myself not to puff my chest out and preen, I opt for the humble route. “I work out so I can eat what I want. Plus, I enjoy it. Keeps me focused and quiets the noise,” I admit, cutting the bread into slices.
“That’s how I am with baking.” She leans against the counter, buttering slices as I hand them to her. It feels so domestic, and I love it. I picture us doing this every night as we prep lunches for our future kids. “I don’t mind handling the front occasionally, but I’m happiest in the kitchen. I let Mara handle all that.”
“Why?”
“Why what?” She hands me the bread, a confused expression marring her features.
Taking the bread from her, I plop it into the skillet, happy when it sizzles and the scent of butter hits my nostrils. Quickly adding cheese on top, then bacon, I place another slice over them and turn to give her my full attention. “Why are you happier in the kitchen? Aren’t you part ofTwin Roasts?”
“Well, yeah, but I don’t need to be seen. We have Mara for that.”
She doesn’t need to be seen.Is she serious? She’sallI see.
“Explain that. Now.” I’m on the verge of doing something really stupid or really nice. Right now, I can’t tell which is going to win out.
Crossing her arms over her chest, she pins me with a look. “I’m just the baker. Mara is the brains of the operation. She handles the coffee and banking stuff; I just take care of the kitchen.”
Just the baker? Brains of the operation? What the fuck?
“Oh, Mila.” I tug her into my arms. “You do more than just bake. Any five-year-old can be a baker given some instruction and supervision, but what you do is different.”
I feel her huff against my chest, and I’m about two seconds away from putting her over the counter and spanking her ass. Pulling back,I lean down and look directly into her light brown eyes. They remind me of the streusel on the coffee-cake muffins she makes. Light and like you’re home. “You take basic ingredients and turn them into something amazing, something delicious. I’ve heard people rave about your lemon bars, and God knows I get hard every time I bite into one of those brownies. They’re soft and so damn decadent.” Brushing my lips across hers, I want to punch my fist in the air when she smiles.
“I think you’re a bit biased there, Casanova.”
Turning toward the stove to flip the grilled cheese I may have to eat because I think it’s burnt, I shrug. “Biased, right—it’s all the same really. But don’t discount what you do, Mila. Some people say I just color on others for a living.”
“That’s bullshit, Kash. You make incredible tattoos.” She scowls, crossing her arms again.
“Hmm.” I chuckle, pulling the sandwich onto a plate. Shutting off the burner, I face her. “I guess you’re a bit biased too then, eh?”
Mila takes the plate from me, then leans up on her tiptoes to kiss my cheek. “Not biased. Just right.”
Quickly grabbing her waist, I pull her against my chest and lower my head. I steal a kiss and hold her in place as I deepen it. I’ll never get enough of these moments. She melts into me for a beat before pulling away. Walking toward the table, I smirk when she tosses over her shoulder, “And don’t you forget it.”
Yes, ma’am.
Mila and I are relaxing on the couch. The rain is coming down hard outside, and it makes me thankful we’re in for the night. My girl has her head resting on my lap, thumbing through her phone, looking at different recipes. One of my hands grazes the soft skin of her thigh; the other plays with her hair. I don’t know how my life can get much better than this. Kissing the top of her head, I tug her closer to me.
“Kash?” her voice cuts through the silence.
