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“I like certainty.” I pull out a mixing bowl and grab the flour from my bag.
“Oh, I have flour!” She bends over again and digs under the counter.
I almost groan at the outline of her ass in those pants, but I don’t. I simply take the flour when she offers it and measure it into the bowl. “I’ll need a cup of cold milk and half a stick of butter.”
“Got it.” She rummages in my bags and pulls those things out, then grabs a plastic measuring cup. Holding it up, she says, “Unbreakable. Totally safe.”
“Good idea.” I use a big spoon to start mixing the dough. “You stir, and I’ll add ingredients.”
“Bossy.” She shimmies next to me and grabs the spoon.
I notice she didn’t say she didn’t like me being bossy. Good. Because this is just the beginning. I’ve been giving her space for the past few months, letting her get settled into this new life that Mildred gave her. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t wanted her. I promised Mildred I’d watch out for Lena, and that’s what I’ve been doing. But I’ve also been going a little above and beyond. Visiting her granddaughter while she sleeps probably isn’t something Mildred would have instructed me to do. But I do it, all the same. Little Lena thinks she’s been stalking me, but if she only knew how closely I’ve kept tabs on her …
“So I just stir?”
“Just stir.” I measure out the butter and chop it into small pieces.
She stops stirring and watches. “How do youdothat?”
“What?”
“That.” She does a chop motion with her hand.
“Like this.” I hand her the knife and scoot her in front of me so I’m caging her with my arms. I keep my hips back and try not to think about ripping a hole in her tight little yoga pants to stick my tongue through.
“This won’t end well.” She tenses. “I’m so clumsy. One of us is going to lose a finger, and I’m kind of hoping it’s you since this was your idea.”
I laugh. Mildred would have loved this little pistol. “You can do this.” I wrap my hand around hers as she holds the knife’s hilt. Her skin is warm and soft, and the scent of her lotion sends heat through my veins.
“Now,” I say it in her ear and watch as goosebumps erupt along her shoulder, “carefully slice through the butter just like this.” I guide her hand.
She puts her other hand onto the board to help steady the butter, but she doesn’t curl her fingers away from the blade.
I grab her wrist and pull it behind her back.
“Hey!” She turns her head to protest, putting her mouth so close to mine. Her gaze goes to my lips, and she licks her own. “Why’d you do that?” Her voice is breathy.
“If you can’t chop without curling the fingers on your off-hand, then you have to hold it behind your back.”
“That’s stupid.”
“That’s safety.” I lean into her a little, dominating her despite my best intentions, and keep her wrist firmly in my grasp. “You can cut it one-handed.” I guide her knife hand smoothly through the butter, slicing it one way and then the next until the pieces are almost pea-sized. With a quick movement, I scrape the butter that’s stuck to the blade and chop through it.
“Look at me!” She smiles, her body relaxing against mine. “I’m using a knife and no one’s bleeding. It’s a miracle.”
“You’re a natural.” I use the knife to scoop the butter into the bowl. Releasing her wrist, I take a step back. “Get to stirring. We need a nice dough.”
She wiggles her butt in triumph. “I’m a chef.”
I stuff my hands in my pockets to keep from grabbing her. “Good work.”
Once we’ve finished the pie crust and prepared the filling, the kitchen is warm and flour seems to have dusted most of the counter.
She keeps looking in the oven and clapping a little. “A homemade pie. This is going to be so good.”
I walk up behind her. When she straightens, she’s up against me.
Turning, she looks up. “Did, um, you want to look at it?”
