Page 30 of Boomer
She glanced back, almost startled but not apologetic. Barefoot. Drawstring pants riding low on his hips, T-shirt inside out, sleepy-eyed and freshly showered. Carter Finley looked like he’d been carved out of midnight and memory, and she cursed herself for noticing the way his hair looked like tufted silk.
He paused at the doorway, leaning on the frame like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
Several minutes ago he’d been pulled out of sleep. He’d woken to the scent first. Warm, golden, spiced. Familiar in a way that struck straight through the armor he hadn’t realized he was still wearing. It smelled like Sunday afternoons in Georgia when his Oma visited from Munich. Like falling asleep on the couch while she baked in his mother’s kitchen. Like stories in a thick accent and a wooden spoon tapped lightly against his knuckles when he tried to sneak a taste too soon.
Disoriented, he’d pulled on pants, a tee. He didn’t remember falling asleep.
He followed the scent down the corridor barefoot, quiet. The light from the kitchen spilled low and amber against the tile, and there she was.
Hair knotted high. Sleeves rolled to the elbow. A smear of flour across her cheekbone.
“Technically, it's more of a free-formapfelstreusel. The crust’s a little rustic, but the filling is proper.” She tilted her chin at him. “Your grandmother would approve.”
That brought him up short. “How’d you know?”
“You said once your Oma used to bake with cardamom, and you smiled when you said it.” She lifted a hand, then hesitated. “I needed something familiar too.”
Boomer stepped inside the kitchen, bare feet against the cool tile. “You cook when you can’t sleep?”
“I interrogate first. Then I cook.”
He held up his hands. “I swear. I’m innocent.”
She stared at him for a moment. “Not a day in your life were you innocent.”
He chuckled with a wicked edge, and his body heated with the way she glanced at him, like she was trying to breathe in the midst of fire.
“That’s what I thought.” A shadow crossed her features, then passed. “They didn’t talk. Not a word.”
He nodded slowly, but his eyes were on her hands, the way she pinched the top of the crust closed. She moved like someone who had done this a thousand times, not to impress, but to breathe.
“What about you?” she asked, voice softer now. “What do you do when the mission leaves you spinning?”
He thought about sugar-coating it, but decided that being honest was the best way to go into this thing with her. “Used to drink. Break things. Sleep with women I didn’t care about.”
Taylor didn’t flinch. Her hands paused, resting lightly on the counter as she glanced over at him, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes. “We all have our escapes,” she said softly.
“I like this better—showering, running drills, and…following good smells down hallways.” He breathed deep of the tantalizing scents. “How about you, besides cooking?”
She looked down at the spoon she’d been using, then back up at him. “Mine was about schedules. Precision. Everything neat, efficient, manageable. No mess. No chaos. Certainly, no men who could make me feel anything.” Then a small smile curved her lips, almost self-aware. “Now I burn off stress by interrogating narco suspects…and apparently feeding Americanspecial operators in the middle of the night.” She exhaled. “So maybe we’re both still finding better ways.”
“You seem to be making an exception about men…”
That earned him a smile. Small. Real, and it drove him a little bit mad.
She slid the tray into the oven and dusted her hands. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Yeah? What did you expect?”
“Loud. Cocky. Explosive, in every sense.” She moved past him to grab plates. “But you’re more…layers. Like streusel.”
He blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Sweet. Spiced. Irresistible. Crumbles just right if you know how to handle it.” She passed him the plates, then silverware with a flick of her wrist. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
He chuckled, quiet and low. Her words were going more to the head he wasn’t thinking with, and to a place in his chest that ached. “I’ve never been compared to baked goods before.”
“Well. There’s a first time for everything.”
