Page 80 of Desserts for Stressed People

Leaning against the counter, I draw little circles on it with my finger. “Well, there’s another thing.”

He turns to me.

“Whenever I leave a room, I need to ask permission from the voices in my head, or they tell me to do horrible...terrible things.”

His brows arch as his eyes widen. It takes him a couple of seconds, but finally he smiles as he awkwardly stands a little straighter, trying to hide his discomfort. “Re-really?”

Oh, I can’t hold it. I nod for an instant, then tumble onto the counter, hiding my face as I explode into laughter.

“Jesus—for fuck’s sake, Heaven.” He sighs, bursting into a fit of laughter as he lightly pushes me away.

Chapter20

Reading Between the Lines

Only after all thedry ingredients are together and we’re whisking the eggs do I realize I don’t know what we’re making. I don’t ask, and instead, I try to guess. He’s going to use the stove. There’s a small kitchenette in the room, but no oven. And he bought honey. I think about pancakes or crêpes, but neither requires honey.

He mixes the wet and dry ingredients until it’s all a smooth and liquid dough. He turns to the pan and makes sure it’s warm enough, then he drops a little oil in it. As it sizzles, he moves back to the dough, whisking some more. Focused. He darts from one side of the counter to the other, his body moving like it’s made to be in a kitchen, his silver suit perfectly fitting him.

“You’re mesmerizing to watch when you bake,” I say in a dreamy, not-subtle-at-all voice.

He smirks. “I’d be mesmerized too if you were actually helping.”

How can I, though? And miss all this Shane-the-baker? No, I think I better keep to the sidelines, make sure he doesn’t stain his gorgeous suit by keeping a very close eye on it. Maybe he should take it off, just to be on the safe side.

When he sends me a pointed look, I approach him with a salute. “What should I do, Mr. Hassholm, sir?”

“Make sure the oil covers every inch of the pan, Miss Wilson. Please. And thank you.”

I rotate the pan left and right to spread the oil everywhere, and he appears by my side with a smirk and a red silicone kitchen brush. “Oh.”

Once I use it to spread the oil, he joins my side and pours four little pools of dough into the pan. So heismaking pancakes. Or crepes. Finally, my curiosity is too much to ignore. “I don’t know what we’re baking.”

“Dorayaki. A Japanese dessert.”

“Oh, isn’t it the one from Doraemon?”

He turns with his brows raised.“Yeah, it is. Geek.”

“That I am,” I mumble, looking back at the pan. “Aren’t they supposed to be filled?”

“No. It’s like a sandwich with two of them.”

That explains why he bought three types of jam and a chocolate spread.

Fidgeting with a big, plastic spoon, I smile wide. “Is this all a ruse for you to understand if I’m a jam or chocolate type of girl?”

I regret my words as soon as I’ve uttered them. What if he’s done showering me with desserts? Maybe our bet is over.

“Well...” He flips the disks of dough with a playful shrug. “I’m not saying I won’t be counting how many of each you’ll eat.”

My heart tumbles, and I have to fight the instinct to press my body against him and hug him tight. I really want to, now that we’re back to being us. It’d be okay from behind. I could wrap my arms around his stomach, beneath his arms, then press my cheek to his wide back. I’d love that.

“Get a plate?” he asks. As I pass him one, he continues, “You’re staring at me again. You do that a lot.”

“Does it bother you?”

“No, it doesn’t. I stare at you too. I just have enough self control to do it when you’re not looking.”

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