Page 31 of Big Girl Panties

"We should get started then." I tried to sound casual despite the way my heart picked up pace whenever he was around.

"Tell me where you want me," Matt replied, and I swear there was a hint of mischief in his voice that made my cheeks warm.

I busied myself reaching across the counter for my recipe binder, flipping to Grandma's legendary chocolate chip cookie recipe. "You're on ingredient duty," I announced, shifting sideways so he could see the recipe card. But before I could move away, Matt stepped closer, his chest brushing against my back.

The air left my lungs in a rush. The cozy kitchen suddenly felt smaller, warmer, filled with the scent of his cologne mingled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, creating an intoxicating mix. Every nerve ending seemed to wake up at once.

"Um," I managed, my voice embarrassingly breathless. I swallowed hard, acutely aware of how his presence seemed to envelope me completely. "You can collect everything from the pantry and fridge."

Being tall enough to read over my shoulder, Matt leaned in closer, his hands coming to rest on either side of me against the stainless countertop. I was effectively surrounded by over six feet of charming, cookie-baking distraction, and my brain chose that exact moment to flat-line.

"And you?" he asked softly, his voice closer to my ear than strictly necessary for cookie-making purposes.

"I'll…" My mouth had gone completely dry. "I'll get the mixing bowls and measuring cups."

Neither of us moved. The recipe card blurred in front of me as I became hyper-aware of everything: the steady rhythm of his breathing, the warmth radiating from his skin, the way the afternoon sunlight streaming through the window seemed to make this moment feel like something out of a movie.

Maybe Grandma's cookies were more magical than I'd ever realized.

The warmth of his breath tickled my ear as he leaned over my shoulder to read the recipe card. "Okay, so we need sugar, flour, butter…"

"Yep," I practically squeaked, my voice jumping an octave. I couldn't think with him so close, and I made really bad decisions when I couldn't think clearly. I shuffled sideways so fast I nearly knocked over the salt shaker. "I'll just grab everything from the closet. Right now. Be right back!"

I power-walked to the back closet like my life depended on it, not daring to look back at Matt's probably very confused face. I pressed my forehead against a shelf and groaned. "Seriously, Brooke? What is wrong with you?"

Matt wasn't just attractive. He was the kind of guy who remembered your coffee order after meeting you once, who listened when you talked, and who somehow made measuring cups seem romantic. I hadn’t known him long, and I could already see myself falling hard for him, and that was terrifying.

My hands shook slightly as I grabbed the mixing bowls from the top shelf. The truth was, I couldn't handle another heartbreak. The ink was barely dry on my divorce papers, and my heart still felt like it was held together with superglue and stubbornness.

Sucking in a deep breath, I grabbed the hand mixer and gave myself a stern talking-to before emerging from my tiny dark sanctuary.

"Everything okay in there?" Matt asked, his eyebrows raised in that adorable concerned way that made my stomach flip. "I was starting to think you'd been kidnapped by baking supplies."

"Just couldn't find the mixer!" I held it up like a trophy, hoping he'd buy my terrible excuse. "But we're all set now."

"Great." He rubbed his hands together. "What's next, Chef Brooke?"

I pulled out my phone and scrolled to my "Feel Good Vibes" playlist. Soon, upbeat pop music filled the kitchen, drowning out the construction noise from the front of the café and giving me something to focus on besides Matt's ridiculously perfect smile.

"So," I said, arranging ingredients with military precision, "have you ever made cookies before, or am I dealing with a complete amateur here?"

Matt laughed, rolling up his sleeves. "My brother Niko and I used to help our mom make chocolate chip cookies when we were kids. And by help, I mean we ate about half the cookie dough before it ever made it to the oven."

"That sounds like the most important part of the cookie-making process, honestly."

"Mom always said we were her best taste-testers." His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, and I had to look away before I did something embarrassing like sigh dreamily.

"Well then, consider yourself promoted to head of quality control," I said, tossing him an apron that read 'Kiss the Cook' in faded letters.

"Is this a job requirement or a suggestion?" He held up the apron, but his eyes never left mine.

Heat crept up my neck. "Both."

The apron hit the table with a soft thud. He took a step closer, then another, until I could smell the mint on his breath. The air shifted, electricity crackling between us.

"You don't have to tell me twice," he said, his voice rough around the edges in a way that made my stomach flip. His hands cupped my face, thumb brushing my cheek, and fingers gripping the back of my neck. Every nerve ending sparked to life where his fingers traced.

His lips brushed mine once, twice, before claiming my mouth completely, soft at first, questioning. Then I melted into him and everything changed. The kiss turned hungry, desperate. My lips parted as his tongue slipped through, tangling with mine.