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He gives me a satisfied smile. “I love when you let me lick things.”
The measuring cup slips out of my hand, crashing onto the floor, and I bend down to retrieve it. Normally, I’d roll my eyes and throw a dish towel at him—something along those lines—but his words hit a different spot. Not annoyance. Desire. He’s right.I dolove it when he licks things, but I’m too shy to tell him that.
When I rise, I replace the cup in my hand with an oven mitt and slap him on the side of the head, wishing desire weren’t igniting through me. I’m supposed to be making cookies for my church fundraiser, and all I want to do is fall back onto my knees and taste-test him.
He exaggeratedly flinches with a satisfied smile on his face at flustering me.
“All right, what flavors are we baking up today, boss woman?” He scrubs his hands together.
I swoop my hand toward the ingredients. “Chocolate chip.”
He snatches the bag of chocolate chips. “I call those.”
“Oatmeal raisin.”
He gags. “You can’t do oatmeal raisin.”
“What? Why?”
“People who make oatmeal raisin cookies deserve to be in prison.” He stands taller. “Here us chocolate chip lovers are, minding our business and snagging a cookie, only to bite into it and discover it has wrinkled-ass grapes inside.” He flicks the box of raisins along the island with his fingers. “And people wonder why I have trust issues.”
“You have trust issues because you get too much in your head.” I drag the raisins back and hold them up. “You’re getting raisins. We need variety.”
He scans the ingredients. “What are our other options? Peanut butter? Snickerdoodles?”
“None. Everyone has confirmed what they’re bringing. I’m responsible for chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin.”
“All right, but don’t let anyone think I helped you with that disgrace of a cookie. I’m making the chocolate chip, and I will give you the honors of eating the nasty raisin dough.”
“You’re too overdramatic.”
“I take my cookies very seriously, Lina. You know this.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I mutter.
“I’ll be on sugar duty.” He snags the sugar jar.
I pluck it out of his hand. “Iwill be on sugar duty.” I set it on the other side of me on the counter, away from him, and waggle my finger in the air. “Remember last time I let you be on sugar duty?”
“Yes, they were heavenly.”
“No, they weren’t.”
His palm goes to his heart. “You sure know how to hurt a man’s baking ego.”
“You putwaytoo much sugar in them. They tasted horrible.” I hand him the carton of eggs. “You’re on batter-mixing duty.”
“Well, if that isn’t damn boring,” he grumbles, opening the carton.
* * *
Four hours later,the house smells like a bakery, and the cookies are done.
I rub my hands together before turning around and washing them. “I need to shower and get ready.”
Rex nods, and I swallow back my laughter at the flour handprint on his face from me tapping his cheek earlier. He tried to wipe it away with the back of his arm, and I was such a good friend and held back from telling him he missed it.
“Same,” Rex says, throwing the last of our trash into the can. “Do you want me to pick you up or meet you there?”
