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“Fine. Maybe some extra hands would be useful.”

He spreads those delectable, tattooed hands of his wide, rings glinting in the light. “Just tell me where to put them, then.”

I get a feeling in my chest that I have neither the time nor the space nor the mental-emotional bandwidth to process right now.

“Take off your rings, wash your hands, and roll up your sleeves.” I point toward the hook beside the pantry. “And put on that apron.”

Kane obeys.

He sets four dark rings beside my phone, washes his hands, and folds his cuffs back. The black ink on his forearms is revealed, inch by inch. Then he ties on a white apron printed with tiny strawberries. It’s a bit big on me, which means it’s barely enough to cover his crotch.

“That apron has never looked so good,” Priya mutters as she passes me with fresh boxes for Cameron.

“Shut it,” I side-mouth back to her. “I run a professional kitchen, goddammit.”

“Now what?” Kane interrupts from behind me.

I hand him the first stack of mixing bowls. “Sink. Soap. Scrub. Dry.”

His eyebrows rise. “Am I being hazed?”

“You’re on probation. Prove yourself worthy, and maybe you’ll get a call up to the big leagues.”

“Mopping?” he asks with a teasing shine in his eye.

I swat him with the nearest dish towel. “If you’re lucky.”

Laughing, he goes to the sink and starts to work.

And I immediately lose track of my thoughts.

Which, like, c’mon. That’s so dumb.

This should not be sexy. Dishwashing is not a sexy activity. I spent ten years asking Connor to rinse his oatmeal bowl before it hardened into construction material, so suds should inspire resentment, not horniness. Especially not at 4:00 A.M.

But…

Then Kane braces both hands against the steel basin.

His shirt tightens across his back.

His muscles flex and move.

He starts to hum to himself.

Hum! In my kitchen! In a voice that can carry a tune, no less!

For God’s sake, does this man have no shame?!

“Ahem,” I say. “We can turn on the radio, if you want music.”

He just smirks. “It’s your show, Chef. You call the shots.”

I turn and scurry off before he can throw me any further off my rhythm.

By five, the whole staff is in place. Priya handles fillings and final bake times. Angelica pipes the cakes. Jolene checks names against pickup windows and labels each box. Cameron takes the first delivery run at six thirty. I work the center table, finish the tart shells, and direct traffic.

Kane washes everything we send him.