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Nixon and I might have been failures in the kitchen department, but Mom was amazing. I gently pull the notebook out, the pang of longing hits me at the sight of Mom’s handwriting filling the pages. Biting the inside of my cheek, I skim the page with my finger, tracing the lines and curves. I flip the page and then another, each new recipe bringing back memories.
Blueberry scones.
My favorite.
The words blur on the page as the memory hits me. Sitting on the bar stool, watching Mom work. The smell of blueberries and sugar as we watched the scones bake—the burning of my tongue as I tried to eat one straight out of the oven. Mom’s laughter—damn, I forgot the sound of Mom’s laughter until this very moment, and I hadn’t even realized it.
Tears gather in my eyes, but I blink them away. Determined, I scan the recipe before pulling out all I’ll need.
Putting the bowl on the counter, I add flour, sugar, baking powder, a little bit of salt, and cinnamon, mixing it all together. Then I pull a stick of butter from the fridge and grate it into the bowl before I dip my fingers into the ingredients and start to knead.
Or at least Itryto.
“Dammit!” I squeeze my fingers, trying to mix all the ingredients together, but my grip is too weak.
I’m so busy cursing that I don’t hear the footsteps approaching until bulky arms wrap around my middle. My body stiffens until the familiar smell of pine surrounds me, and I can feel my muscles relax against Prescott’s hard chest.
“What are you doing up?” Prescott asks, burrowing his head into the crook of my neck.
The nightmare I had flashes before my eyes, a shiver running through me. How can the same house bring so much good but at the same time so much bad? With a shake of my head, I push the memories away.
“Couldn’t sleep, so I went to get some coffee. Figured I might get some work done since I’m already up.” I rub the back of my hand against my cheek and tilt my head back so I can look at him.
“I mean, what are you doing up? You should be resting.”
“I’m feeling better today,” I shrug. “How did you sleep?”
“Good.”
“Liar.”
Sleepiness still clings to his face, and there are dark circles under his eyes.
“The bed felt empty when you left.” He cups my face, rubbing his thumb over my cheekbone. “There. You had flour on it. What are you trying to make anyway?”
“Scones. Now, if I could only make this dough…” I try to squeeze the butter, hoping it’ll turn into something, but curse my luck. “Ugh, I hate this!”
“How about you make me coffee, and I’ll make scones?”
I turn around, narrowing my eyes at Prescott. “You’ll make scones?”
“Yeah,” he shrugs.
“Have you ever made scones?”
He raises his brows. “Have you?”
“Well, no.”
“Then we’re in the same boat.” His hands slide down my back, giving my ass a squeeze before he brushes his lips against the corner of my mouth. “I’ll knead. You get coffee and whatever else you need.”
“Okay,” I agree reluctantly. “I guess we’ll see if those muscles of yours are of any use.” Slipping out of his hold, I go toward the sink. “Wash your hands, and get to work, Wentworth.”
While I wait for his coffee to be made, I mix some heavy cream, an egg, and vanilla extract to add to the flour, along with chocolate chips and blueberries. Then, Prescott starts to knead it all together. Grabbing his coffee cup, I take a seat at the counter and watch him work.
Although I don’t think he’s cooked a day in his life, he’s not half bad at it. I watch his biceps flex as he kneads the dough, a look of concentration on his face, and if it isn’t one of the sexiest things I’ve seen.
Suddenly he looks up. “What?”
