Page 36 of Hand-Fasting and Other Hazards
“We’ve met before,” Ivy said with a playful lilt. “But, from what I hear, you were pretty deep into the fairy wine at the time.”
Lochlan’s brow furrowed. He wished he could remember—not because he doubted Ivy, but because he’d been fearless that night. Free. He wanted to know what it had felt like to be this version of himself.
“Anyway,” Ivy continued, breezily, “I’m so happy you came. We could use an extra set of hands. Johanna—the owner of Peter’s Diner—just ran off to grab more batter. The turnout has been even bigger than we expected.”
“No, he doesn’t need to—” Nia started, but Lochlan cut her off before she could finish.
“I’d love to help.” He liked cooking. And he wanted to be near her.
Instead of heading to the empty griddle, he stepped up beside her. Their arms brushed as he reached for a spatula.
She didn’t say anything, but he caught the subtle hitch in her breath.
Don’t be thick. Say something. Anything.
“How’s your ass?” he asked, before his brain could catch up with his mouth.
Nia froze, her pancake hovering mid-air. She gave him a look. “You just jumped straight to butt stuff, huh?”
“I meant… after you fell. On the stairs.” He winced. “I’ve been worried but didn’t know how to ask, and now I’ve made it weird.”
“It was already weird,” she said, grinning.
They fell into a rhythm, handing plates across the griddle and keeping up with the steady line of people waiting.
“My butt is fine, by the way,” Nia said. “Did you do something to the stairs? I don’t remember them being carpeted.”
Lochlan’s face heated. He had installed it yesterday, telling himself it was for Jade. She wasn’t getting any younger. That was true. But it wasn’t the whole reason, and he didn’t know how to say the rest.
Before he could answer, Nia swore as smoke curled off a pancake. It wasn’t the first to catch fire.
“You’re not very experienced at this, are you?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light.
“Just because I can’t craft edible flowers and puppy dogs from batter like you,” she said, waving her spatula toward his side of the griddle after she’d removed the scorched pancake, “doesn’t mean I’m not needed.”
“You’re definitely needed.” He stepped closer, guiding her toward the tray of chocolate chips and blueberries, his hand lingering on her back. She didn’t move away. The scent of her filled his head—smokey vanilla, amber, and maple syrup. His voice came out low and rough. “But how about you take toppings, and I’ll handle the pancakes.”
Nia’s breath whooshed out in a surprised laugh, her cheeks flushed with a heat Lochlan hoped he’d caused, though it might just have been the griddle.
“Are you trying to fire me from my own fundraiser?” She sounded bemused.
“Not firing, just… reassigning.” Nia had many talents, but cooking clearly wasn’t one of them. “To a role where you’re not a danger to yourself. Or anyone’s breakfast,” he said with a grin before turning back to the griddle.
Lochlan threw himself into the task of making pancakes, crafting them into flowers, cats, and dogs that earned delighted giggles from the children crowding around. But as hard as he tried to focus, his attention kept drifting to Nia, working too close beside him. It was a test of restraint he hadn’t been remotely prepared for. Every accidental brush of her arm, every fleeting touch of her hand sent a pulse of heat through him. His thoughts wandered to the night before—and what might have happened if Becket hadn’t, well, been Becket.
Nia leaned behind him to grab a clean cloth, brushing against his back in a fleeting, maddening caress that made him fumble the spatula. He bit the inside of his cheek, desperately willing his body to behave—the last thing he needed was to flip pancakes while battling a very inconvenient, very obvious problem. Divine intervention would be nice right about now. Or, at the very least, an apron.
Intervention did come—just not in the form Lochlan had hoped for.
A weary-looking woman waddled up, hauling an industrial-sized bucket, her presence dousing the fire kindling between him and Nia.
“I brought more batter,” the woman announced gruffly.
“Thanks, Johanna, you’re the best.” Nia pried off the bucket’s lid and used it to fan herself.
Johanna grunted in response before shuffling off toward the fruit station, muttering something about strawberries.
Moments later, Ivy appeared, her arms full of empty batter dispensers. “I’ll fill the bottles,” she said brightly. Before anyone could protest, the batter began pouring itself neatly into the dispensers, as if guided by an invisible hand.
