Page 43 of Walkoff Wedding

It’s been less than twenty-four hours since we got married. Since the kiss… and the plan, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it.

How much I loved it and how I really, really shouldn’t be thinking about that. It makes this arrangement between us that much more dangerous.

“Okay, let’s go.” I lead him into the kitchen, and of course, the moment we walk in, Amos looks up from the rack of apple fritters he’s standing over, a look of amusement on his face.

I already know that I’ll never hear the end of it. Of course, one of the only days I have ever shown up late, I show up with my… with Grant in tow. Not to mention, I haven’t exactly had the chance to drop the bomb on them that our fake marriage is not going to seem very fake. Most of the time.

“Well, good mornin’, cher. And… her new beau,” he says, eyeing Grant.

I narrow my gaze at Amos, telling him to cut it out until Grant turns, and then I quickly put on a wide smile to cover the fact that I’m silently yelling at Amos with my eyes.

“Good morning. Grant… asked to come to work with me today because apparently, he has a hidden love for baking, so here we are.”

Grant smirks. “It’s true. I’m a man of many talents that are just waiting to be mastered. I’ve always wanted to learn to bake.”

“Oh, well, you’ve come to the right place, then,” Amos says, gesturing toward me with a flourish of his hand. “Addie’s the real talent in here, and don’t let her tell you anything different. You’ll be learning from the best.”

He’s the best baker here, but I know there’s no use arguing with him.

While Grant’s with Amos, talking to him about prep, I walk over to the massive refrigerator and lift out a pan of chilled dough that’s going to be cut into our signature beignets and carry it back to the prep table.

It never fails—no matter how many we make for the breakfast crowd, they always sell out. So, I try to get as much done as I can before the doors open at five thirty.

“That’s a massive piece of dough.” Grant’s deep baritone comes from behind me, a soft caress to the shell of my ear, causing me to jump in surprise. I was so lost in thought and my routine that I didn’t even hear him walk up.

I can feel the warm rumble of his chuckle against my skin, and I do everything in my power not to shiver, to show him that I’m affected by something so simple.

Maybe it’s just cold in here.

Clearing my throat, I nod, turning to face him. “Uh, yeah, we make literally hundreds of these every morning, so it takes a lot of dough.”

“What can I do?” I notice that he’s rubbing his hand along the back of his neck, like there’s an ache there, and my brow furrows.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I think I might have a crick in my neck from sleeping on it wrong or something.” He rolls his neck on his shoulders before shrugging. “I’ll be fine. Put me to work, woman. I need to learn the ropes.”

Guilt tugs at my stomach. I feel terrible that he’s sacrificing comfort just so I can have his bed, and even worse that I woke him up in the middle of the night just to put him to work at the bakery.

“Grant, you should totally go home and get some sleep. I feel horrible for waking you up when you’re already sleeping uncomfortably on the couch because of me.” I chew my lip. “I’ll get Amos to drop me off at class later.”

He shakes his head adamantly. “Hell no. If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be, ArtGirl. I want to be here. I wanna help you make the best damn beignets in the city, so… tell me where to start?”

I try not to smile at what he’s saying, but it feels impossible.

Finally, I nod and gesture to the dough in front of us, then start to explain the simple but time-consuming process of rolling it out to the perfect thickness and cutting the dough into beignets that we then drop into the fryer.

Grant listens intently and follows along as I show him each of the steps, a look of sheer determination written on his face.

I set the large roller down in front of him and sprinkle some flour along the prep counter. “Now, you try.”

Before I can move out of the way, he steps behind me, bracing his hands along the counter on each side of me. I can feel the heat of his hard body behind me surrounding every inch of me as his massive hands cover the handles of the roller, and carefully, slowly, he begins to roll the dough out. His movement is slow and precise as he attempts the measured thickness, like he’s nervous he’s going to break the dough.

“Like this?” he asks from behind me, his breath warm along the sensitive spot near my ear.

Nodding, I place my trembling hand over his, showing him the amount of pressure, and help him with it. The hardest part about rolling out dough is finding the perfect amount of pressure to get the dough just right.

My heart begins to race at the contact, but I swallow down my nerves and repeat the motion with him. I have to keep reminding myself that the only way to seem convincing is to stop being so nervous around him. I have to stop freaking out when we touch. It won’t seem real to those watching if I keep making it painfully obvious that I’m so nervous.

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