Page 40 of Worth Fighting For

“The last time I had milk on its own must’ve been when I was eight,” I say.

“Don’t knock it till you try it.”

I sip the milk, and Shang is right: There really is nothing better than their cows’ milk. It’s so creamy it almost tastes like I’m drinking heavy cream, but with a lightness to it that keeps it from being too cloying. There is no aftertaste; everything about it is refreshing and clean. “Wow. Okay. You were right.”

“Sorry, what was that again?” Shang grins, showing those deep dimples of his, and I roll my eyes.

He steams the milk, then pours it carefully into the mug with espresso in it. When he brings over the latte, I see that he’s drawn a leaf on it. Is there anything this guy does not excel at? And of course the latte is one of the best ones I’ve ever tasted, if not the best. The first sip makes me groan, its rich nutty flavors making my muscles relax even as the caffeine wakes me up.

“Quit your job and open up a café,” I mutter.

Shang chuckles. “Yeah, let me get right on that.”

I watch him roll out the dough. “Are those…pancakes?”

Shang cocks an eyebrow. “And just from that one question alone, I can tell you have never set foot in the kitchen.”

“Nope. My mom sends me food regularly and the rest of the time I subsist on Postmates.” I say this without shame, and in fact with a tad of pride because I am truly so sick of finance bros who tell me in many different, exhaustive ways that my place is in the kitchen.

“Fair enough. No one can beat mom’s cooking. These are not pancakes. You don’t roll out pancake dough. These are dumpling skins.”

“Oh! Wait, you’re making dumplings from scratch? Don’t they sell dumpling skins at the supermarket?”

Those dimples appear once more in his cheeks. “They do, but I like making my own. I started making them when my mom’s arthritis flared up, but over time I realized I liked working with dough. It’s therapeutic. Wanna try making one?”

Not wanting to seem like a grump (which I kind of am), I agree. I hop off the barstool and stand in front of the kitchen island. Shang sprinkles more flour on the counter and puts a ball of dough on the prepared surface before handing me the rolling pin. “Hold it like this,” he says, standing behind me and reaching out to show me the proper grip.

His hands are on either side of me!my mind squeaks. And indeed, they are. The nearness of him is impossible to ignore. If I lean back, even a little, I’ll feel his hard chest against my back. His scent envelops me—a clean, woody musk that fills my senses and clouds my mind. I want to nuzzle my nose into his neck and inhale deeply. I blink rapidly, forcing my mind to concentrate on the rolling pin. I place my hands on either end and press down on the dough.

“Not like that,” Shang says, and leans in closer. His chest pressing against my back is so solid I want to simply melt against him. Gently, he lays his fingertips on the backs of my hands, and it takes all of my will not to react. “A soft touch,” he says.

My mind goes to very, very NSFW places.Stop it, you pervert.

“You want to start from the edges and go in. The edges of the skin should be thinner than the center, so when you fold it you’ll get a uniform thickness all around.”

My god. That is so sexual. No, wait. Is it sexual? Or is my perverted mind just turning everything into an innuendo?

To be fair, Shang’s hands are still over mine, so he must be aware of the sexual tension sparkling in the air.

Or not.

Technically speaking, it’s only his fingertips, and very, very technically speaking, they are just barely grazing my skin.

But grazing of the skin is a well-known sexual practice! Isn’t it?

Okay, enough of this.

I jerk up, and Shang, startled, steps back. “You okay?”

“I think the coffee’s just kicked in,” I say, sidestepping so I’m now a very safe arm’s-length distance from him. To place emphasis on the coffee, I take a big gulp of it and go “Mmm.” Shang looks like he’s about to say something, so I hurriedly say, “Hey, do you need chores doing around the house? I feel like I should pitch in.”

“Uh—”

“How about firewood? You got enough of that?”

“Well—”

“Do you guys chop your own firewood around here? You know what? I love chopping firewood and I’m going to chop some up for you.”

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