Page 88 of Better When Shared
I found Juniper in the kitchen. The stew simmered on the stove, filling the room with a fragrant, savory aroma. She'd lit every bulb she could find, transforming the ancient scullery into something almost cheerful. She stood at the counter in front of a series of containers of dry goods, rooting through the drawers, and coming up with ancient measuring cups and a battered wire whisk. The hoodie was only half-zipped, and it had slipped off one shoulder. I could see the faint shadow of a tattoo curling toward her collarbone, reminding me of what she'd look like gloriously naked, bouncing on Marco's cock.
I watched her for a moment. She moved like she owned the place.
"Do you want something?" she asked, not looking up.
"Just seeing what you're up to," I said.
She beamed at me. "Perfect. Your caretakers gave us eggs, and I want to make bread to go with it for breakfast. They have all the ingredients for cinnamon swirl, like my grandmother used to make. There's nothing better than the smell of baking when you wake up. We can let it rise overnight, then pop it in the oven first thing." She started setting out ingredients—flour, sugar, a brick of butter that might have been here since the Blair administration.
"You bake?" I said, unable to hide my skepticism.
"Only occasionally. I might do it more if our life wasn't so chaotic."
"Is the boutique hotel business stressful?"
She shrugged. "Yeah. We didn't expect it to go as far as it has. Don't get me wrong, we're grateful it's doing well, but Marco and I always sort of envisioned a quieter life, you know? Everything blew up so quickly that we've had a chaotic year. But we've started to work out how to calm the chaos. Delegation goes a long way, don't you think?"
"Wouldn't know. I've never delegated."
She burst out laughing. When I didn't laugh with her, she sobered and looked at me, wide-eyed. "You don't? We've recently found some balance by hiring good people and paying them well. It cuts into the profit margins, but what's the point in profit if you don't have time for fun?" As she spoke, I hoveredby the counter, watching as she began measuring flour with ruthless efficiency, dusting the surface with a flick of her wrist.
"What's fun, again?" This time I was teasing, and she smiled.
"Well, here's an example of delegating. You're going to help," she announced. "For educational purposes."
"I've never—"
"That's the best part," she said, crowding me until my hip pressed against the battered wooden edge. "Trying something new. Bread is forgiving. You just have to feel it. I'll show you."
She poured flour into my palms, then reached past me for the salt, her body brushing mine in a way that made my skin go electric. Her warmth seeped through my too-tight T-shirt, and I tensed, trying not to show how much it affected me.
Juniper worked fast, dumping flour into a mixing bowl and cracking in a single egg. "Here," she said, pushing the bowl in front of me. "Start mixing."
I reached for the wooden spoon, but she batted my hand away. "Nope. Hands only." She rolled up her sleeves and plunged both hands into the sticky mess. "Come on. Don't be shy."
I sank my fingers into the cool dough, feeling it clump around my knuckles. "This feels obscene," I said, but she just laughed.
"You're well aware of how capable I am with the obscene," she murmured, bringing the other night back into the forefront of mine. Her hands found mine beneath the surface, guiding my movements. "You've got to really get in there. Use some muscle. There's nothing delicate about dough. It likes to be manhandled."
I shot her a look, but she wasn't joking. She showed me how to knead, folding the dough over on itself, her fingers slick and sure. Every time I lost the rhythm, she corrected me, her hands strong over mine, her nails tracing gentle circles into my wrist. The sensation was strangely intimate. It demanded total attention.
My breath sped up. I could feel sweat prickling at my hairline.
Juniper leaned in close, her voice dropping. "You're getting it now. The dough is alive; you have to coax it. Feel the elasticity."
"Is this a metaphor?" I asked, fighting to keep my hands steady as the mass firmed up.
"Only if you want it to be." She pressed her body lightly to my side, resting her chin on my shoulder as we worked. "You tense up when you get flustered. Loosen your grip."
I risked a glance at her face. Her eyes were dark and liquid in the harsh kitchen light, her lips stained with cinnamon. She looked at my mouth, and then at my hands in the dough, and then at my mouth again.
Juniper's hands closed over mine, stopping the motion. She turned my palms over, examining the sticky mess, and smiled. "Perfect. Now we let it rest. Later, we'll roll it out and add the cinnamon swirl, then chill it overnight in the fridge, assuming that works." She scraped the dough into a battered metal bowl, covering it with a damp tea towel. "See? Easy."
I flexed my fingers, trying to ignore how much I wanted to touch her in ways that had nothing to do with flour.
Juniper stepped closer, reaching up to brush a streak of flour from my cheek with her thumb. "You look good like this," she said. "Less polished. More real."
I wanted to say something clever, but my tongue stuck.
