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I wash the bowl and mixing paddle, then get out the wet ingredients, dropping a lot of butter into the bowl. With maybe a bit too much excitement, it's just a mixer after all, I turn it on to power level three. The machine kicks in with a whir. Jonas visibly startles, a bit of flour flying from his measuring cup. He stares wide eyed at the machine, like it's about to come alive and attack.
I flick it off, and meet his gaze. "It's too loud, isn't it?" I didn't truly understand how Jonas saw the world before this afternoon. I don't fully understand it now. The noise of the mixer, while loud, doesn't bother me. It's easy enough for me to tune out. But clearly, Jonas isn't having the same experience.
He glares at the mixer, then focuses back on his flour. "It's fine," he says shortly.
He's trying to be tough. I'm tempted to let him, but I don't know if glossing over things like this is helpful.
"I don't think it is fine. I think it bothers you. I --" I stop to wet my lips, thrilling at the way his gaze sharpens, his eyes locking on my mouth. What was I saying? Right. "I think you're going to have to tell me stuff like this. Otherwise, I might be doing all kinds of things in this apartment that will be hard for you. Blasting music, singing off-key. I mean, there's so many things that make noise. Coffee grinders and hair dryers and vacuums." Everyday life is filled with noise. It's inescapable. "Oh my god, It's a freaking minefield. How do you manage?"
As I ramble, Jonas's eyes soften, and he grins. "It's not that bad, Janey. I promise. This one just took me by surprise. I can handle noise. You know that. I did it all morning."
"Right. I forgot," I mutter sheepishly. "But maybe it would be better if we just mixed it all by hand."
Jonas carefully lowers the measuring cup into the bag of flour, then plants his hands on the counter, staring down into the bowl and the precisely measured mound of flour. "I don't like that," he says softly.
"Like what?" My voice is just as soft.
"I appreciate you wanting to be thoughtful," he says, glancing at me briefly. "But I don't like being treated like I'm incapable."
I wasn't doing that...was I? "I just thought it would be easier for you to..." I drift off because yes, I realize, I was doing that. "I'm sorry."
He takes a big breath, and lets it out slowly. Finally he raises his head and pins me with a look so determined I melt a little. "I do not like you thinking I'm weak. I am not."
"You're one of the strongest people I know, Jonas," I tell him honestly. "I don't think you're weak. At all."
He searches my face, looking for a lie. He won't find it. Over and over again, I've admired this man. He's so incredibly smart. He's kind. He's a caretaker. He’s also sexy as all get out. The idea of someone looking at him and thinking he's weak is ridiculous. But clearly, I've touched an exposed nerve.
"That day you guys hired me for HR, you told me that you make accommodations for people all the time. And you did. I have Eli and Kate, and they've learned to give me information in a way I can process it. So I can do my job." I look at him, mentally begging him to stick with me. The slight nod is all I need to barrel on. "I think it's like that. I don't know what your limits are. And I don't want to do something that will hurt you. So if you tell me this is fine, I'll believe you. But I'll also need you to tell me if you're overloaded. Actually...tell me before you get overloaded." I hate those tight lines around his eyes. I'd really like to make sure I don't do anything to make them worse.
Jonas's face slowly relaxes. "Agreed."
I can't resist. I give him a huge smile, then reach up and wipe a little bit of flour off his cheek. "You're messy."
"It's too fluffy," he grumbles, but I see the smile in his eyes. "It won't stay put."
"Welcome to baking," I say cheerily. "It's messy. But at the end of this, you'll have yummy cookies to show for it." I turn back to the mixer, and with another quick look at him, turn it back on to level three to cream the butter.
Things go smoothly, me mixing the wet ingredients while Jonas carefully measures out the dry. Finally, we're ready to combine. Despite the noise, Jonas seems interested in the mixer. I can almost see him twitching in excitement to play with it.
"Now, all we have to do is combine them."
My mistake is turning away to wash my hands.
It's apparently too much temptation for Jonas. I hear the powerful roar of the mixer, on max power, and the kitchen is filled with a choking cloud of flour. I spin and lunge for the power dial, Jonas's hand collides with mine. In a panic we fumble, finally stopping the whirring machine. We stand, hands clutching the top of the mixer, panting. I'm on the verge. I know it. I can't look at him. But I'm also desperate to look. Finally, I give in.
It's better than I could have ever imagined.
Jonas’s entire upper body is covered in flour. He's standing there, staring at me, stunned. Flour has turned his black hair gray. His eyebrows are coated in white. Even his eyelashes. I lean closer, and yep, there's even little mounds of flour in his ears.
I cover my mouth, but I can't muffle the laughter. The giggles pour out, turning to full belly laughs as he scowls at me, rubs his nose, then sneezes, creating another cloud of white. I can't take it. It's too good. With a wheeze, I slide down his formerly pristine dark wood cabinets and plop to the floor. "Oh my god, Jonas. What happened." I know exactly what happened, but I really want to see him explain it.
His hands come up as he waves at the mixer. "You said combine it. I just put the flour in and turned it on. I wasn't thinking." He slaps at the front of his t-shirt, making more flour clouds between us, then drops to the floor next to me. "In hindsight, it’s obvious that putting a powdery substance on top of a dense one, then adding a high-velocity paddle into the mix, is a disaster waiting to happen."
Still laughing, I reach over and rub at the flour on his cheeks and neck. As always, his body stills as I clean him up. "It feels like you'd sit here forever, and let me touch you," I whisper, my fingers turning from brisk to slow caresses across his cheeks.
A little wheeze escapes him, and he nods. I take that as an invitation, and move my caresses lower, to this shoulders. "There's more flour here," I murmur. There is, but the stroking I'm doing is more likely to embed it into the fabric than brush it away.
This dynamic between us makes me feel something I don't think I've ever felt before.
