Page 24 of Spicy or Sweet
I grab my phone from my apron pocket and sigh when I notice the time. I was hoping to get in a couple more hours, to get ahead, so I might be able to take a little longer off on Sunday for family dinner, but I have to get out of here.
Shay hums along to her music while I clean up, making quick work of putting everything away and wiping down the counters. Thank god I’m a tidy-as-I-go kind of baker, because there’s not a lot for me to do. It’s tempting to half-ass my end-of-day routine, but I know I’ll regret it tomorrow if I do.
I check the dates of the fresh produce in the refrigerator, pulling forward anything that needs to be used tomorrow, refill my shakers with flour, powdered sugar, and cornstarch for dusting, sweep the floor under my workstation, and, most importantly, I don’t look at Shay once.
All in, it takes me less than ten minutes to close out my workstation. And then I make a fatal mistake: I look up.
Shay has her back to me as she bends over the counter on the back wall, piping coffee ganache and salted caramel on the macaron shells she baked earlier. She’s wearing blue jeans that hug her body like a dream, a white T-shirt, and a navy apron. The strings are looped around her back, framing a tiny sliver of skin that’s visible where her T-shirt is riding up.
She finishes up her piping and drops the bag, tip and all, onto the big pile of mess that’s been accumulating all afternoon by the sink. To give her her due, the kitchen is always spotless before she leaves, and she never complains about cleaning up. Honestly, she seems to like it. Shay does everything with a smile on her face and a pep in her step. The kind I used to have when Ibaked for fun, before this place sucked all the joy out of my one true love.
At least Shay is showing this kitchen a little joy these days. It sure as hell ain’t getting it from me.
I don’t recognize the song she’s humming as she peers up at the shelves above the counters, but every sound disappears from my head when she stands on her tiptoes and reaches up. Her T-shirt rides up, exposing a two-inch strip of her back, and I swear the breath is knocked from my lungs when I spy the edge of a tattoo. I can’t tell what it is, but I see a flash of green and blue as she teeters on her toes.
The sight of her almost falling is enough to snap me back to my senses. Whatever she’s trying to get, she’s not tall enough to reach. Shay isn’t short, but she’s not as tall as I am, and this kitchen was built with my height in mind.
I cross the room, and every step toward her feels… dangerous. It’s like every inch of floor I clear is going to make it that much harder to retreat.
And then I’m standing right behind her, and I can smell the lemon and the sugar and the white chocolate from the cake she made, and the coffee and caramel from the macarons, and the fresh daisy scent that always seems to hover around Shay. The combination overwhelms my senses, but I don’t hate it.
“What are you trying to reach?” I ask, my voice low and hoarse.
Shay jumps, twisting her body until she’s facing me, her eyes wide. “Shit. I didn’t hear you coming over.”
“Sorry,” I offer, not sounding sorry at all, because this close, I can see the flecks of silver in her gray eyes. I can see the freckle on her lower lip. And as soon as I spot it, it’sallI can see.
The polite thing to do would be to take a few steps back. The sensible thing to do would be to run the hell out of here. I do neither.
“Um…” Shay runs her tongue over her bottom lip, and I have to stop my knees from buckling. “The purple silicone mat.”
“What?” I ask, barely hearing her.
“From the shelf. That’s what I was trying to reach.”
Right. That’s why I came over here.
I reach for the mat, my fingers closing around the soft silicone with ease. I set it on the counter beside Shay, but she doesn’t look at it. Her eyes are on mine, like she’s searching the very depths of me.
“Thank you. Are you finished for the day?”
I nod, but everything feels like it’s slowed down just a little. Like we’re operating at 0.75 times speed. “Yeah. I’m all cleaned up, so I’m?—”
“You missed a spot.”
My eyes narrow in confusion. “What?”
Shay’s pupils are impossibly black as she lifts her hand. “On your cheek. Cocoa powder, I think.”
I hold my breath as she brushes my cheek with her thumb. I almost close my eyes, but she’s looking up at me through thick lashes, and I can’t physically look anywhere but into her eyes.
“Got it,” she says, starting to pull her hand away.
I have no idea what possesses me, but I place my hand on top of hers, trapping it against my face. It’s the opposite of the position we were in yesterday—physically, and in energy. Shay sucks in a breath as a myriad of emotions cross her face.
Confusion, surprise, intrigue, desire.
The last one is what my brain focuses on.
