Page 14 of Milk & Cookie

“Orange flower petals, a lemon, organic baking soda. Maybe some turmeric or saffron for different tones.” I shrug. “I’ll use whatever we have available. Nature always provides, and its gifts make beautiful watercolors to paint with.”

“All organic,” he says.

“Naturally.” I smile.

“Naturally,” he repeats, his eyes sparkling.

6

VINCE

It’s still dark, and I must look like a monster, lurking in the shadows behind the little bakery, but I don’t care. Fred gave me an opening, and I’m going to wedge myself inside it. I roll my eyes at myself. My cock’s so eager to see her, it making every thought a lewd one.

I hold the awkward, hand-picked bunch of flowers behind my back and knock on the bakery’s rear, staff-entrance door.

A few moments later, Fred opens it, wafting tantalizing smells of assorted baked goods at me. She dusts flour from her hands, and a huge smile lights her face. “You came.”

Her long hair is braided into a bun at the back of her head, her eyes are bright and clear, and her cheeks glow pink. She has a retro half-apron tied around her waist, and she’s wearing a sundress so pale and thin, I can see her dark nipples through it.

I wet my lips and avert my gaze, but my attention moves to the light dusting of flour that has been caught in the labor-induced damp at one side of her forehead. I want to smear it with my finger, mixing it into a salty batter I’d eat raw. I want to fucking devour her.

“Why the fuck wouldn’t I come?” I rumble. “Look at you.”

The color in her cheeks deepens. An alarm sounds behind her, and she walks backward. “Come in. I’ll be right with you.”

The heat hits me instantly, and I unbutton my too-heavy shirt one-handed before shrugging out of one sleeve and switching her flowers to my other hand, to shake the flannel off completely. “Hope you don’t mind my getting comfortable,” I say, hanging my shirt on the hook next to her coat. “It’s unseasonably cool outside for early summer, but it must be a hundred degrees in here.”

She looks over her shoulder as she’s pulling a sheet of cookies from the oven. Her hands waver when she sees me, and almost losing her baking, she quickly rights the hot tray and sets it on the counter next to two others before turning to face me. “I don’t mind you stripping for me, but you can’t come too close to the work zone without a shirt. I’ve got hygiene and customer satisfaction to think about, and baking anywhere near your rug of chest hair would be bad for business.”

“Understood.” I spy a stool in the corner near the sink and away from the food-prep area, and head for it. “I brought you some painting supplies.” I hold up the marigolds, calendulas, and nasturtiums with one hand, while I rinse an empty container I find in the sink with the other. I fill it with water, and then set the flowers into it. “All edibles, in case the kids put them in their mouths or something.”

“That was very thoughtful.” She sounds closer than I thought she’d be.

I spin to find her right behind me with her fingers covered in dough. “Need to wash my hands,” she says, wiggling them at me.

“Of course.” I step to the side, so she can access the sink.

“I started a little early.” She keeps her gaze on her hands as she talks. “I hoped it would give me time for a longer break, so I could spend it with you. If you came.”

“When is break time?”

“As soon as I get the next batch of breads into the oven. Will you put the kettle on? People laugh at me for boiling water the old-fashioned way to make tea, but I detest microwaves.”

“I feel the same way,” I say with a grin. “A lot of other places in the world use electric kettles, but there’s nothing quite like a good whistler calling out.” I reach for her kettle and flap the spout lid a few times. “I make my tea the same way at home.”

“You can have coffee, if you prefer that in the morning, but if you’re a tea drinker, I’d love to make you an herbal concoction.”

“Or I could make you one.” I start to fill the kettle while she dries her hands.

A strange smile tugs at her lips. “What kind of tea would you make me?”

I turn and stare at the rows of dried herbs in jars on the shelves next to me. I study the carefully hand-written labels. “Have you eaten?”

“I’ll have a snack with it,” she says, sounding amused. “Will that make a difference to what you’re going to make?”

“Of course.” I gesture at her wall of choices. “You’ve got a great selection here, but some herbs are more beneficial after a meal, right? I’d like to make you a… marshmallow, fenugreek, and vanilla concoction, with a hint of nutmeg. What do you think?”

Her eyes are very pretty. Wide as fuck and very pretty. She bats her dark lashes at me in a slow, disbelieving blink, and her incredible blue gaze strips me bare. “I think you’re fascinating. How do you know what to make? Did you search for clues, mystery-lover? Are there fingerprints on my most-used jars? Dust has settled on the least-used ones?”

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