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“What can I say, I’m good at spotting opportunity.” He flicks the face of my belt, his gaze popping up to mine. “You’re coming on Saturday, right?”
My conversation with the girls this morning comes back to me and I nod. “To the infamous seniors-only party, but of course.”
“And so excited about it,” he teases, slipping closer. “Save your dancing for me.”
I shrug, going the intentionally dramatic slow blink route. “If you’re lucky.”
“Oh, if I’m lucky.” He slides the latex of the gloves along my arm, his smirk overconfident and far too easily called on. “Interesting.”
I grab a hold of the gloves, and he lets them go, his eyes following my hand when I extend my arm beyond his bicep.
Arsen steps up with an aura of confidence I should expect yet find myself charmed by.
Scott’s glare is pointed right at Arsen, but he gives him not a moment’s attention. His face remains blank as he takes the outstretched gloves and turns his body sideways, so he’s now facing ours. His muscular arm glides beside my head to grab the size small I need for myself.
As he backs away, he decides it’s time to go, and hooks his middle finger with mine at my side.
Arsen tugs me forward with his backward steps.
I fight a grin when Scott doubles down on his frown.
“I have to go.” I slip past him, playfully whispering, “My partner needs me.”
He doesn’t find it funny, his body turning as mine does and then we’re facing each other again, but this time, he’s the one against the counter while I’m three steps away and counting.
“What your partner needs... is to stay in his lane, and to learn when to keep himself out of a conversation.” Scott’s words are delivered with a nasty, condemnatory tone, making it clear he believes this lane he speaks of is several miles behind his own.
Arsen comes to a screeching halt, causing my body to bump into his. The finger curled with mine twitches. I glance down, finding I’m subconsciously running my thumb along his knuckle.
“Oh, that’s right.” Scott delivers a foul laugh, widening his shoulders. “Conversations aren’t something he’s capable of.”
I jerk free of Arsen’s hold and I’m in Scott’s face before I know what I’m doing or why.
Threats are ready to spew from me like vomit, vomit he deserves to be served fresh and hot across his ridiculous shoes for calling attention to someone’s disabilities, but I take a second to swallow, to heed the subtle warning in his eyes when what I really want to do is spit in them.
He and I, we run in the same circle, the one I was pulled into when my old friends learned I was coming back here.
Arsen, he doesn’t even have a circle, but a triangle, and I don’t doubt he’s capable of handling anything thrown his way.
So why am I standing in his way?
I lick my lips.
“Lucky for him, I’m not a fan of useless conversation.” I manage to hold the indignation at bay and hit him with a bored grin. “Catch you later, Scott.”
Stepping out wide, I maneuver myself around Arsen, and head straight for our table, but I’m caught around the wrist and yanked to a hard halt.
My eyes snap up to meet Ransom’s.
His glare is instant and he shoves to his feet, his head jerking in the direction I came from.
His jaw flexes and he releases me, but I don’t stand there to see what comes next and I don’t know why my muscles have turned to knots.
I hastily slip the gloves on and dive straight into the mixing bowl to blend the ingredients, ignoring the ridiculous way my pulse beats through my palms.
I don’t realize I’m basically strangling the poor dough until a solid chest meets my back, a familiar one that shouldn’t feel familiar, and large hands slip inside the bowl, molding over mine.
His fingers do the work, entwining ours together and guiding us both, kneading and rolling the dough as if he’s done this a hundred times when the whisk already gave away the truth.
His chin dips slightly, bringing his jawline to my cheek.
At my back, his chest rises and falls with long, full breaths, and my lids decide to close.
Suddenly his lips are at my ear, parting, but all that comes out is a half-exhaled chuckle.
“Ms. Filano.”
My eyes fly open, and every other pair in the room is now on me, thanks to Mr. Gant’s critical tone.
Arsen, in absolutely no hurry, removes himself as my blanket and steps beside me.
Mr. Grant crosses his arms, taking a few short steps into the main aisle with his focus on me. “Something wrong?”
I might be losing my mind.
I might feel hot all over with only a second’s foreplay… in the middle of a cooking class, with a guy I basically just met, like a practiced hussy.
