Page 29 of Nine-Tenths

Shit.

Shit.

A loud noise startles us both, and Dav whips his head around to track it, slit pupils narrowing, predatory andhnnnnnnf that's sexy. Of course, he's looking right atme,because the noise was me dropping the box.

Welp.

Yeetus yeetus, time to self-deleteus.

"I'll help—" Dav starts.

"No, I'm fine." I start scooping the packets back into the cardboard box. "Just, stay over there." I add, and okay, that might have come out a bit desperate, but the front of my jeans is not currently fit for public viewing and the last thing I want is to make Dav uncomfortable again.

I pop back up, box held in front of my fly.

"I, ah, bathroom." I leave the box on the station and dart for the gent's. I splash cold water on my face and the back of my neck until everything calms the fuck down.

When I get back, he's buttoned his shirt and waistcoat, cool and collected again. Thank fuck. My nerves would not have been able to take it.

"Now what?" he asks.

"Huh?"

"I finished. Should I do more?"

"Uh. Wow, yeah, that was fast. Okay. I guess I can show you how to make batter?"

"So long as you promise not to burn them." He twinkles out a smile.

Sassy-Dav has started to resurface, and I like the bitch.

Am I forgiven, then?

"Shut up," I snipe playfully. The kitchen is heavy with dragon-generated heat, and I prop open the back door to clear out the last of it. "I'll make you bake them, instead."

"They may actually be edible, then."

Making sure he can see me reaching, I pinch his arm.

"Owww," he complains theatrically. "How cruel."

I'm sure the recipes for the baked things must be written down somewhere, but I talk him through from memory. Once the scone batter is in the fridge, the basic oat muffin batter gets portioned into four bowls.

"Blueberries in this one, the whole basket," I tell Dav, "Raisins here, bananas and peanut butter there, then chocolate chips here."

Dav frowns. "Should you be handling those?"

"I'm not anaphylactic."

"Still, it's a shame," Dav says, popping one of the chips in his mouth. It's organic and made small-batch from an ethical-labor, sustainable farming operation. "Chocolate is one of my favorite things about the New World."

" 'The New World'?" I huff. "D'you still call historic Toronto 'York', too?"

The corner of Dav's mouth twitches down. "Only when speaking of His Excellency’s territory."

"His… Excellency. Right," I say, blind-sided by the reminder that the man standing beside me is hundreds of years old. And in every culture in the world, dragons are chieftains, or tribal leaders, or autocratic royalty like the Russian Czars and our own British Empire monarchs.

I have no business getting a crush on a man who, for all I know, may be an actual prince. That's one step too close to taking draconic romance novels seriously, thanks.

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