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Benedict hesitates for a moment, his gray eyes clouding over with something unreadable. “I guess you could say I wanted to forge my own path,” he says finally, his voice low and slightly guarded. “But I still enjoy cooking whenever I get the chance. There’s something soothing about it, don’t you think?”
“I’m more of a baker than a chef myself,” I admit, leaning against the counter. “How did you end up becoming a firefighter?” I inquire, genuinely curious about his journey.
He hesitates for a moment before answering, his gray eyes clouding over with a hint of sadness. “Well, it all started when I left the Navy SEALs. My older brother had already joined the fire department, and he convinced me to follow in his footsteps.”
“Wait, you were a Navy SEAL?” I exclaim, taken aback by this revelation. Images of Benedict in uniform flash through my mind, making my heart race even faster.
“Yep,” he confirms, a small smile playing on his lips. “But after some time, I realized that I wanted something different. So, I decided to trade in my combat boots for a firefighter’s helmet.”
“Wow,” I whisper, trying to reconcile this new information with the man standing before me. A part of me is intimidated by his military background, but another part is undeniably intrigued.
As we continue to chat, I find myself growing more and more captivated by Benedict. He has so many layers, each one revealing a new aspect of his personality—from the sensual chef who can create the most mouthwatering dishes, to the fearless Navy SEAL who risked his life for his country.
“Being a firefighter isn’t as glamorous as being a chef, but it’s incredibly rewarding,” he says, a faraway look in his eyes. “There’s just something about saving lives and helping others that makes me feel…alive.”
“Sounds like you’ve found your calling,” I say softly, my admiration for him growing with each passing moment.
“Maybe,” he replies, his gray eyes locking onto mine once more. “Just like you did with your bakery.”
“Speaking of the bakery,” I say, trying to lighten the mood, “I remember you mentioning your love for cinnamon rolls when you were there once. How about I make some for us? It’s not every day I get to impress a chef’s son.”
Benedict chuckles and raises an eyebrow. “Really? You’re going to try and compete with the bakery’s cinnamon rolls?”
“Hey, I never said I’d beat them. I don’t have all of my professional materials here, but I can try, at least,” I reply, giving him a playful wink.
“Alright, challenge accepted,” he says, grinning from ear to ear. “But just so you know, those bakery cinnamon rolls hold a special place in my heart.”
“Prepare to make room for them homestyle then,” I retort, feeling a surge of determination as I begin to gather the ingredients needed for the cinnamon rolls.
With each measured cup of flour and dash of cinnamon, I feel a growing excitement within me. It’s not just because I’m eager to showcase my baking skills, but because sharing this experience with Benedict feels intimate and special—like we’re forging a connection beyond our undeniable physical attraction.
“Need any help?” Benedict calls out from the other side of the counter, his gray eyes sparkling with curiosity.
“Actually, I would love some.”
10
BENEDICT
“Cinnamon rolls have always been a special tradition in my family,” Harper says, breaking the silence. Her voice is soft, like a whisper, yet it carries through the room and draws me in.
“Really?” I ask, leaning against the counter, my eyes never leaving her. “Why cinnamon rolls?”
“Every Christmas morning, my dad would get up early and make a fresh batch of cinnamon rolls for us,” she explains, her eyes lighting up at the memory. “He’d spend hours perfecting the recipe, making sure each roll was fluffy and tender on the inside, while still having that satisfying crunch on the outside. He loved to bake. He’s probably the reason I love it so much.”
I can almost taste the sweet cinnamon wafting in the air as she speaks, and I imagine what it must have been like to experience such a warm and comforting tradition. Harper’s words paint a vivid picture in my mind, and I can’t help but feel a pang of longing for something similar, not having ever experienced something like that with my own family.
“Sounds amazing,” I compliment, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. “Is this his recipe you’re using?”
Harper nods, a small smile playing on her lips. “Yes, it is. It took me some time to perfect it, but I think I’ve finally got it just right.”
“So it wasn’t perfect before?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at her, amusement in my gaze.
She laughs and shakes her head. “I just improved on it a little bit.”
The warmth of the kitchen wraps around me as I watch Harper work her magic with the cinnamon roll dough. Her fingers move skillfully, kneading the mixture with a practiced grace that leaves me in awe. But it’s not just her culinary prowess that has me captivated—it’s every little detail about her.
I take in the curve of her hips as she leans over the counter, the way her lips purse in concentration, and the soft rise and fall of her chest as she breathes. She’s otherworldly, enchanting, and I find myself wanting to be the one who unravels the mysteries that lie beneath her surface.
