Page 8

Yes, you are.

“All right, Phineas.” Drift pulled an apron from a hook and tossed it to me. “Time to earn your breakfast.”

Catching the apron with both hands, I stared down at the fabric as if it might bite. I’d learned how to make Ben’s favorite meals to avoid being punished. Aside from those five basic dishes, I was the worst cook. “I still think this is a bad idea.”

“Croissants are ninety percent folding and ten percent not panicking.” Drift positioned himself at the counter and began portioning the dough. “Come here. I’ll show you.”

I stepped up to the counter beside him. The apron went over my head, ties knotted awkwardly at my side because my hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

“Okay.” Drift slid a portion of dough in front of me and placed the butter closer. “First, you flatten the dough. Not too thin. About half an inch. Then we layer the butter and fold.”

The dough yielded beneath my fingers, and I found the texture oddly soothing. I sank my fingers in deeper before I remembered I was supposed to be folding, not having a moment with the soft blob.

“Little more pressure,” Drift encouraged. “You won’t hurt it.”

Won’t hurt it. As if I was a danger to anything. I couldn’t even kill the occasional spider that invaded my home. I always scooped it up and tossed it out the window. It might’ve had a family depending on it.

Focusing, I pressed harder, spreading the dough outward while noticing how the tension in my forearms loosened with the repetitive motion.

“Good. Now the butter.” Drift demonstrated on his own portion, laying thin slices across the surface in overlapping rows. “Even layers. Take your time.”

Taking my time was a luxury I rarely had. At home, every task operated on Ben’s invisible clock, where efficiency was survival and lingering invited pain. But here, in this flour-dusted kitchen that smelled like heaven’s waiting room, timers didn’t exist.

Still, my hands moved quickly, arranging butter slices with the frantic accuracy of someone expecting one to buzz.

“Hey.” Drift’s voice came from much closer than expected. “Slow down. There’s no rush, Phineas. I want you to enjoy the experience.”

I only had one setting in a kitchen. Mach 5.

Drift stepped behind me, reaching past on both sides to adjust the dough. His forearms appeared in my line of sight. Tan, lightly dusted with flour, and close enough to feel the soft brush of hair.

“Fold it like this.” Drift’s hands worked the dough in front of us, bringing one third over the center then the other third on top. “Next you turn it ninety degrees and roll again.”

I only heard half of what was said.

Every nerve in my body fired at once. Not from fear. That was the bewildering part. Drift’s closeness didn’t trigger the usual alarm bells, the ones that shrieked danger and made me freeze. Instead, it triggered a wanting so sudden it stole the breath from my lungs. If I leaned back even an inch, I’d be pressed against that solid frame. The thought made my cock twitch.

“See?” Drift murmured. “Nothing to it.”

Absolutely everything to it.

For one reckless, intoxicating moment, I let myself exist inside the feeling. Warmth at my back. Flour on my fingers. A voice that asked nothing of me except to slow down.

Then Drift pulled away, his hip once again bumping into me. “I’m also a klutz.”

“You move like someone who’s never tripped over their own feet,” I said, wishing Drift would do it again. “Unlike a certain someone I shall not name.”

Drift glanced over his shoulder, his eyes warm and focused. “Evidence to the contrary, I bump into things all the time.”

Maybe he was just trying to laugh it off, but the image stuck in my head. I tried to picture Drift, the guy who made everything look easy, swearing and hopping around his kitchen. Impossible, but weirdly comforting.

Drift pushed a tray across the counter. “Check these out. Still a little hot, so be careful picking one up.”

I picked up a croissant, careful to avoid touching anything else. “This smells better than any bakery I’ve ever been to. What’s your secret?”

“Witchcraft,” Drift replied, straight-faced.

“Shouldn’t you keep that a secret?” I cracked a smile. “Otherwise you’ll get raided by pastry rivals.”