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As much as he pisses me off sometimes, the back and forth brings a smile to my face. We drive each other mad, but beneath the games, it feels like we have this magnetic pull. Opposite poles. No matter how hard we try to distance ourselves, neither of us can resist the attraction that continues to pull us together. The closer we get, the harder it is to stay apart. It’s equal parts right and wrong. Even now, as I stand here and zest these lemons, all I can think about is if he’s getting off to me.
I hope he is. I’ll tuck that notion in a box and save it for a rainy day when I feel like shaming myself.
EIGHTEEN
He better not be late. I have no clue whether he will show. Rhys is a wildcard. He’s crazy enough to pay a thousand dollars to learn how to bake bread, but he’s also a big enough dick to spend a thousand dollars to stand me up solely to push my buttons. It’s fifty-fifty.
I’m wearing black jeans, a black scoop-neck tee, a black apron, and I took extra time on my makeup. I will not let him be prettier than me in my own apartment.
12:58. Two minutes. I’ve been pacing by my front door for the last five. Careful not to smudge my mascara, I look through the peephole. I’m startled to see him standing outside the door. What is he waiting for? I get the jump on him and whip the door open.
“What are you doing out here?” I startle him enough he jumps.
“It’s great to see you too.” A confident smile overtakes his face. “You said one o’clock. It’s twelve fifty-nine.” He taps his watch. It doesn’t look like an expensive one. The way he seems to throw around cash, I’d expect him to wear something flashier.
He follows me to my kitchen, and I hand him an apron, the one with cherries. “You said it was your favorite.”
“It is. Would have enjoyed seeing it yesterday,” he muses, tying the strings around his waist with one hundred percent confidence. His eyes burn into me, but I refuse to acknowledge his little comment. Instead, I shuffle around the sourdough starter and bags of flour like there’s a purpose to it.
He stands next to me, and I peek at him from the corner of my eye. His shirt spans his chest just right, it’s like it was custom fit. Hard pecs, broad shoulders, thick-as-hell thighs. He kicked off his shoes at the door like a gentleman. And seeing him pad around in socks makes him seem more human. It sets the tone, making this feel more casual and intimate. I like it. Usually we’re verbally sparring, but this feels like two people hanging out together. Who knew socks were the great equalizer?
Previously, I struggled merging Rhys with Hat Trick Swayze, and now it’s becoming harder to separate them. Today feels reminiscent of the date I was so looking forward to until he ruined everything. Technically,it ishappening now, and this time it’s in person. He doesn’t seem affected by the shift between us, but it’s taking a lot of effort to disregard my attraction to him.
That attraction becomes exponentially harder to refute once we mix the ingredients and I show him how to knead the dough.
Holy fuck.
This is so bad for me. His skilled fingers sinking into the soft dough, working it over in his huge hands is...pornographic. I should have never taken the money.
I clear my throat and do my best to concentrate on actually teaching him something. “This dough has a higher hydration, so it’s going to be sloppy in the beginning. You can use your dough scraper if you need to.”
“I like using my hands. And I prefer sloppy. And knead-iness.” He winks.
“Have I mentioned I hate you?”
The heel of his hand stretches the dough over the counter, he folds it back on itself, turns it ninety degrees, and repeats the move. Again.And again.
“Like this?” His voice drops down into something sexy and deep.
Fuck.
“Uh, yeah. That’s great. There’s a two-handed method you can use as well.” I swallow and take the warm dough from his hands to show him. “Basically you use both hands, first use the heel of one hand to push it this way, then cross over with the other and push it in the opposite direction. Here, you try.”
His forearms and biceps flex and bulge.Heaven help me.The way he manipulates it, grips it—squeezes, presses, and strokes it. The man’s a natural. He must be on the same wavelength, because when he slaps—no,spanks—the dough and then jiggles it under his palms, my knees want to give out. Luckily, I’m still standing, but the nervous laughter that slips from me couldn’t be more obvious.
It’s unnecessary, but the salacious part of my brain shows him the slap-and-fold method. Picking up the ball, I smack it against the counter. When he swings and slams the dough down with a loud crack, it’s like I’m in some war movie with a flashbang, all I can hear is a high-pitched ringing as he punishes the ball of dough with his massive hands.
This is so hot.
He does it a few more times, I lost count, but it’s enough to drench my panties. Even if I wanted to be mad about it, I couldn’t. He’s technically doing the correct movements—and honestly, I could watch a full nine seasons of this man fucking up some gluten. I’d camp out a week early to see the premier.
“Hey, so... can I apologize?”
My cheeks heat with embarrassment. I don’t want to discuss that, why can’t he knead the dough and leave me to my ogling?
“I didn’t mean to betray your—”
My trust?Spare me.I’m over it, I want to move on. Watching him knead this dough is satisfying, but I need a break.And maybe a cigarette.In fact, he’s probably overkneaded by now.
