Page 65 of More than Words Can Say

She wobbled forward, casting a glance at him over her shoulder as she went. Something warmed his eyes. Something deeper than passion. More intimate than the teasing quirk of his smile. Something that had her heart swelling to near painful proportions.

Love. Oh, please let that be love. But how would she know? She had zero experience with suitors and knew nothing about interpreting a man’s romantic regard.

Her feet stumbled, and she jerked her attention forward. If only he would say something.

“Careful,” Zach called softly.

Not exactly the something she’d had in mind, but she supposed it would do. For now.

It took more than the couple minutes he’d needed to dress before Zach was ready to make an appearance in the kitchen. Not because he wasn’t hurrying. He’d thrown on his clothes in record time, forfeited the comb for a quick run of his fingers through his hair, and ignored his razor completely. They had too much to accomplish this morning to waste time with superfluous niceties.

Yet it was that very need for efficiency that had him pausing at his door and reaching for the Bible on his dresser.

His mind had completely derailed when Abigail stood mute before him, staring as if he were a well-baked cake she wanted to devour. It had taken every ounce of self-control he possessed—which had been precious little while still in the hazy, post-dream realm that favored fantasies over reality—not to sweep her off her feet and carry her to his bed. He’d settled for a quick kiss and the glorious torture of her hands upon his skin. Not even scrubbing the cotton of his shirt over his chest had erased her touch.

This morning is about Abigail and the bakery, not about you. Get it together.

Inhaling a deep breath, he flipped open the pages of his Bible. A few thou shalts and thou shalt nots should straighten him out. Not really caring where he ended up, he thumbed to a spot near the back of the book. He jabbed his finger at a verse and read, “. . . for it is better to marry than to burn.”

He jerked his gaze toward the ceiling, his hands thrown out in incredulity. “Really?”

Zach had never thought of God as having a sense of humor, but the Big Man must be elbowing the angels right now and guffawing with the heavenly host over the fool mortal who’d done the marrying part yet was still combusting over a pair of dimples.

Fine. Next time Zach and Abigail stood at the threshold of consummation, he wouldn’t wait for her to take the first step. He’d take the reins and drive her straight to his bedroom. Where she belonged.

Oddly enough, that resolution restored a bit of his control and allowed him to bank passion’s flames down to manageable embers. Those embers would be free to blaze later when he and Abigail didn’t have a mountain of biscuits to bake.

Maybe the Big Man was doing more than laughing it up with the seraphim, after all.

Zach traipsed down the stairs, stopped long enough to put his shoes on, then entered his wife’s domain. A long white bib apron covered the dark blue of her dress. With her sleeves rolled to her elbows, she worked biscuit dough in a giant bowl.

Zach strode over to the worktable. “Where do you want me?”

Pink colored her cheeks, shooting ideas through his head that threatened to bring his carefully banked embers back to life. He hadn’t intended anything intimate by the question, but he couldn’t help but be pleased that his wife’s mind had veered that direction. It was nice to know he wasn’t the only one battling the heat.

Abigail lifted her wrist to her forehead to rub at an itch, leaving a white flour mark on her skin. “I measured out butter and honey last night,” she said, pointing with her elbow toward the stove that stood against the south-facing wall. “The butter’s melting on low heat. Give it a stir every now and then, and when it’s completely melted, add the honey from that small bowl and stir it into the butter for the glaze. I should have the first batch of dough ready for you to cut out by then.”

“Got it.”

Wanting to see one more blush before getting down to work, Zach came up behind Abigail, wrapped his arms around her middle, and planted a kiss on her cheek. He was rewarded by blooming pink roses creased with dimples. And a vigorous shooing of dough-encrusted fingers.

“You’re supposed to be helping, not hindering,” Abigail scolded, though her smile took all the sting out of her words.

“Right.” All business now, Zach crossed to the stove, picked up the wooden spoon lying on the cabinet top, and gave the half-melted butter a stir.

Abigail scattered flour on the worktable and plopped a sticky mass of goo into the center of it. She kneaded it with the heel of her hand, folded it, kneaded again, added flour, rolled it around, then kneaded again. Her movements were elegant in their efficiency. If he’d tried to wrangle that sticky mess, he’d end up looking like he’d just crawled out of a paste jar, but she commanded the dough like a master potter working clay. She glanced up, caught him staring, and smiled before turning back to her dough wrangling.

Helping a woman make biscuits should not make a fellow this happy. But when the woman was the fellow’s wife, and she smiled at him as if he were the noblest hero of her acquaintance—well, it couldn’t be helped.

Zach shook his head at his rapidly deteriorating cynicism. Much more of this, and he’d be in danger of taking up his little sister’s habit of breaking into song at random intervals. A snort escaped him at the thought.

“What?” Abby aimed a quizzical look in his direction.

“Nothing,” he muttered, waving a hand to clear the air of ridiculous notions. Though to be honest, the more time he spent in Abby’s company, the less ridiculous singing seemed. He’d probably croak like a toad after nearly a decade of no practice, but he couldn’t deny that the urge to try had emerged from a long-enforced hibernation.

Cutting off a rumble in his throat that some might interpret as a hum, Zach focused on stirring butter and making the glaze.

After an hour, he and Abby had perfected a rhythm. Mix dough, cut biscuits, bake, baste, cool, repeat. The moment a batch came out of the large industrial bread oven that stood against the east wall, Abigail had a biscuit-laden sheet pan ready to take its place. Zach’s hands felt like they were encased in gloves made of flypaper thanks to all the honey, but at least he didn’t have to worry about dropping the basting brush.