Page 24 of Your Sharpest Edge
Nope. Not going there.
I cleared my throat a few times, trying to snap myself out of it.
She glanced over her shoulder, her lips curling into a small smile. “Are you okay?”
I shook my head quickly. “Er-uh—Do you need any help?”
“Sorry,” she giggled, turning back to her search. “I hope you don’t mind that I made myself at home while looking for the ingredients.”
“Not at all,” I assured her, moving closer to where she stood by the island. “So, tell me what we do first.”
We started gathering the ingredients, and I felt a rush every time she flashed me that bright, carefree smile. It was like seeing a different side of her, one not weighed down by the heaviness ofhim. It felt damn good to see her so lighthearted, so at ease.
“Okay. We need to cream the butter and sugar together first. Got a mixer?”
I gave her a sheepish grin. “Not unless you count my hands.”
She rolled her eyes, clearly amused. “Well, it’s going to take some serious muscle to mix it all together. Think you can handle it?”
I leaned in closer, a smirk playing on my lips. “Oh, I think I’ve got it covered, Anastasia. You just needed an excuse to watch me flex, didn’t you?”
She laughed, her cheeks turning pink. “Maybe I just wanted to see if you’d actually get your hands dirty.”
“Is that a challenge?” I grabbed the bowl and the spoon, flexing dramatically. “Watch and learn.”
I started mixing, and she stood right beside me, her eyes darting between the bowl and my arms.
I grinned wider, pretending to struggle. “You know, you could help out instead of just standing there admiring me.”
“Please,” she said, reaching for the bag of flour.
As she tried to scoop some flour into the bowl, her hand slipped, and a cloud of flour exploded between us, dusting both our faces and the front of our shirts.
I blinked through the haze, and she let out a startled gasp, then burst into laughter. “It’s a mess.”
“You’re the one who’s supposed to be the pro at this.”
She turned to grab a towel to wipe us both off, but I grabbed onto her elbow, stopping her.
I scooped up a bit of flour on my finger and tapped it on the tip of her nose. “Well, you’re clearly the messy one here.”
She gasped, eyes widening playfully. “Oh, it’s on.”
Before I could react, she grabbed a handful of flour and flicked it at me, and suddenly, we were both laughing and covered in a mess.
“Alright, alright.” I held up my hands in surrender, flour sticking to my skin. “You win. You definitely win.”
“Maybe,” she said, still giggling, “but we still haven’t actually made the cookies.”
I took the spoon back, shaking my head, still unable to wipe the grin off my face. “You know,” I murmured, leaning in just abit closer. “I think I’m starting to enjoy getting my hands dirty with you.”
Her cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink, and she quickly turned away, reaching for a towel. “You’re impossible,” she muttered, but I caught the small smile tugging at her lips as she wiped off the flour scattered across the counter.
We continued baking, side by side, falling into an easy rhythm. The task was simple, mundane even—mixing ingredients, measuring out chocolate chips—but somehow, it didn’t feel ordinary at all. There was something about the way we moved together, bumping into each other as we reached for the same spoon or laughing when we spilled sugar on the counter, that made it feel like we’d been doing this for years.
She handed me the bag of chocolate chips, her fingers brushing against mine. “You better not eat half of them before they make it into the dough.” She teased me, her eyes flicking up to meet mine with a playful glint.
I smirked, grabbing a few and popping them into my mouth anyway. “Too late,” I mumbled through the chocolate, and she rolled her eyes, shaking her head.
