Page 83 of Make Mine Sweet
“It melted!” August cuts in.
“The cookies spread everywhere.” Ian ticks his head to the side. “And we added too much salt. They’re raccoon food now.”
“Our bandit friends had better get their dinners somewhere else.” I put the lid on the flour canister intending to get a head start on the clean up while they finish baking the last of the dough, but Ian puts his hand over mine.
“This is our mess. We’ve got this.”
“Your helper will probably give up on cleaning after five minutes,” I whisper. August has turned his attention back to scooping out balls of dough and dropping them willy-nilly on the baking sheet.
“I can handle it.” Ian’s warm hand on mine tightens, his voice dropping into hisI mean businessregister. “Go sit down and relax. I thought I’d make dinner, too, if you don’t mind hamburgers.”
“Dinneranddessert? I can help?—”
“Not this time.” He shifts his hand around mine until his thumb brushes the inside of my wrist. If this is his signature move, I’m all for it. “Let us take care of you.”
His words curl around me like the coziest sweater, even as his thumb at my wrist sends a shiver down my spine. I don’t know how to sit back and let someone else take over. Other than Mom and Wren, nobody’s ever offered.
But Ian makes me want to let go. Just a little.
“Okay,” I finally concede. “I will sit down. But first?—”
It feels like a crime to pull my hand from his, but I have a goal. I lift both my hands to his face and gently rake my fingers through his short whiskers. A few gray hairs glimmer among the red. “You have flour in your beard.”
We’ve barely touched since I wound up in his arms a few nights ago after the raccoon incident. It might be a flimsy one, but I’ll take any excuse I can get.
I dust off his beard long after it’s clean. This close, the fire in his eyes is melting all my defenses. I want to bask in it like a sun-warmed cat.
“There,” I say when I can no longer reasonably justify touching him. “The flour’s gone.”
Without breaking eye contact, he reaches behind me, runs his fingers through the small flour pile on the counter, and drags his hand over his beard. His eyebrows quirk.
That little move sends heat coiling through my belly. One part command, one part plea, he’s telling me what he wants. I’m not bold enough for that.
But I can follow directions.
I run my fingers through his beard again, shaking out the fresh spots of flour. Scraping my nails lightly over his jaw. Tracing the smile lines framing his mouth. I want to explore the freckles coating his face like an explorer mapping uncharted waters, but for now, I can be content with surveying his whiskers and jaw.
“Is this enough dough?” August asks behind him.
Right. Because I am not, in fact, alone here with no objective in life beyond fondling Ian’s beard.
“I’ll check, buddy,” Ian says. His hands come to my hips, and he walks me back a step. “Rest.”
After touching him all over his face? Not likely. But I do as told and sit on the couch in the living room. Breathing slowly, I will my rocketing pulse to calm back down. Close proximity to Ian Vaughn makes it impossible.
The way the apartment is laid out, I can’t see them from here, but August’s questions and Ian’s gentle answers as they finish up the cookies carry to me. I stretch out on the couch and rest my head on a throw pillow, smiling over their conversation.
“Have you ever been arrested?” August wants to know.
Note to self: work on his “asking appropriate questions” skills.
“Never. Have you?”
August giggles. “No. But I met the sheriff the other day. He was nice to me and Nana.”
A few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have thought anything of it. Sunshine is a small town, and you’re bound to run into the mayor or a town council member on any random day out. But now, I suspect the sheriff was more than justniceto Mom.
And really, good for her. From everything I’ve seen, Daniel O’Grady seems like a decent guy. Handsome, too, even if I prefer redheaded mountain climbers…
