Page 22 of Digging Up Love
The cabinet squeaked open; then a rush of water filled the sudden quiet. A warm presence at her elbow signaled Quentin’s return. Her nerve endings tightened and burst into tiny tingles of sensation at his closeness.
“How do you manage a baking business with a full-time job?” He took a gulp of water, and she tried not to watch the dip and bob of his Adam’s apple. Failed.
She turned back to the dough, scoring the surface in a grid. “Coffee. No sleep. And I schedule most of my social media posts ahead of time.”
“Wait, you’re an influencer too?”
“Hardly. It’s for my baking.”
“Alisha, that’s super impressive. I have a hard enough time just holding it together with my day job.”
“Which involves research, teaching, fieldwork, authoring papers ...” She nudged him, tingling when her shoulder brushed against his solid chest. “I’d say we’re pretty even in the busyness department.”
“Maybe, but I’ve got grad students who do some of the heavy lifting. Who helps you?”
She grinned. “Are you offering?”
He leaned back to set the cup on the counter behind them. “Sure.”
“Quentin, I was kidding.”
“Why? You think I’m not up for it?” He raised an eyebrow in challenge.
She shook her head. “It’s not that. But I got this.”
“Are you saying that because you really don’t want my help, or because you don’t want to accept my help?”
“What’s the difference?”
“The difference is, one way I’m getting in your way, and the other, I’m taking a burden off you.” His gray gaze met hers. “So which is it?”
She chewed her lip. Pulled open the drawer in front of her and withdrew another rolling pin. “Aprons are hanging in the pantry. And wash your hands again.”
The grin he sent her way spread warmth from the roots of her hair to the polish on her toes. “Yes, Chef.”
Quentin hovered at eye level with the counter, tongue poking out the side of his mouth. Flour dusted the backs of his hands, and bits of blue dough clung to his nail beds. He’d donned a sunflower apron, probably just to mess with her. “You said a quarter of an inch?”
“Give or take. And then we’ll cut it into twenty roughly two-inch squares.”
“Um ...” He flicked his eyes up to hers, doubt creasing his brow.
Grinning, she took pity on him. “Here.” She passed him a ruler, and their fingers touched, sending tingles up her arms.
“Now we’re talking.” He tapped the ruler against the counter and stood. The apron looked doll-size on his tall frame, which somehow only added to his charm. “Tools make everything better.” His eyes widened. “Not everything. Every job. You know what? I’m just gonna shut up now. Please pretend I didn’t just reference sex toys in your grandparents’ kitchen.”
Alisha smothered a laugh. “Too late. But it’ll stay between us. That I can promise.”
“Speaking of grandparents,” Quentin started, and she groaned. “I’m sorry, I know, terrible segue. But I’m just curious—have you always lived here? Or is this sort of a temporary arrangement?”
“Is that your way of asking if this is aFailure to Launchsituation?”
“I could pretend I didn’t know what movie you were talking about and save my street cred, but I think that already went out the window.” He gestured to his apron. “I’m just kind of curious. Usually it’s the children that take care of their parents. I think it’s really cool that you’re stepping up.” Quentin ran a mini pizza cutter along the edge of the ruler.
“I am their kid. Kinda. My grandparents raised me. After my mom ...” She stopped, unscrewed the lid on a container of lollipop sticks. Pushed the words out. “After she passed away. Breast cancer,” she said, to forestall the inevitable question, and hoped he wouldn’t ask about her father.
“Alisha, I’m so sorry.” Quentin set down the ruler, his gray eyes soft as misty clouds. “How devastating.”
Devastating. Inconceivable. Even after all these years, she sometimes woke up expecting Mom to be in the front room with a cup of coffee, robe tucked around her knees, NPR on the radio. “It’s fine, old news.”
