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Mine did too. “Is that … chocolate in your hair?”
Ivy’s cheeks flushed pink. “No. Maybe.” Then she huffed. “Yes.”
Then she stalked away from the door.
I walked in, assuming the fact that she didn’t slam it in my face meant that I was welcome to come in.
Neville approached with a happily twitching tail. “Hello, young man. Could you shed some light on what’s happening in here?” I asked.
Ivy made an annoyed growling sound that had me chuckling under my breath.
The kitchen was a mess. I scratched the side of my jaw and tried to come to grips with what I was seeing—chocolate and powder and mounds of strawberries and a tub of something white and fluffy, half of which was on the counter.
Ivy busied herself by the island, slamming down a bowl of something brown, then snatching a glass from the counter and dumping its contents into the sink. In the sink was a second bowl of something brown.
I fought a smile because there was chocolate on her shirt. Her hands. Her face. And yup, definitely in her hair.
Slung across her shoulder was a messy towel, and even though she was wearing a sleek navy blue dress, she’d pulled an apron from the laundry room, because I recognized it as one of my mom’s. That had chocolate on it too.
“Duchess,” I said slowly, “did you try to bake something for tonight?”
“Give the man a medal,” she snapped. “You’re even quicker than I thought.”
I ambled up to the island, studying the absolute carnage in front of me. I whistled. “What is it?”
She exhaled through her nose, eyes locked on the mess, and I got the sense she refused to make eye contact.
“It was supposed to be chocolate mousse,” she said, her words clipped, and her cheeks flushed a pretty pink. “The article said it was easy. They said it was perfect for beginners, but whoever wrote that article is full of horseshit because look at this.”
I set my hands on the island and nodded my head. “Yeah, we’ve got a mess here, sure enough.” I studied her face. “Why is there so much of it?”
“The first batch was liquid. Completely unacceptable.”
“Uh-huh.” I eyed the pile of dishes. “I didn’t realize you enjoyed cooking.”
“I don’t.” Ivy ripped at the apron and slung it onto the counter behind her. “I was never allowed to learn because why would I ever need to do something normal and useful like make a fucking chocolate mousse, right?”
There was a different bite to her words, and my eyebrows climbed up my forehead slowly.
“Well,” I said, setting my hands on my hips. “How’d you do?”
Ivy gave me an exasperated look. “What does it look like? I couldn’t even get it into the glasses without making a huge mess. It was pointless to try. Should’ve just bought the fucking wine like I planned.”
I smothered a smile. “I meant, how does it taste? If it still tastes good, it’s salvageable.”
She shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t know. I didn’t dare check it. And then when I realized I didn’t dare eat it, I started thinking about how stupid it is to bring a dessert to someone’s home if you don’t even know if it tastes good.”
Damn if my chest hadn’t cracked wide open for this woman.
I wanted to hug her.
I wanted to kiss her.
Press her up against the counter and lick every stray bit of that chocolate off her skin, and God, I was probably crazy for that too.
“Did you tell my mom you’d make something for dessert?” I asked carefully.
It was like walking through a minefield, and the only kind of explosion I wanted between Ivy and me was the mutual orgasm kind, not the she’s going to castrate me kind.
