Page 273 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
I balance the bowl in my palm, giving her a sideways look. “Maybe. But I think you were more than willing.”
“You’re lucky I like you.” Her fingers trail lightly down the open part of my robe, brushing over the exposed skin of my chest.
The soft contact sends a jolt of warmth through me, enough to make me debate scrapping cake time, lifting her ass on the edge of the counter, and eating her instead.
“I am.” My words are more serious than I intend. “I’m the luckiest fucking guy in the world.”
Her lips curve. “I’m the luckiest fucking woman.”
Laughter howls out of me.
The hand under her robe slips out, and I grasp the side of her face. “I haven’t treated you like the luckiest woman, but I promise to make sure you feel that until the day I die.”
“That’s quite a commitment.”
“You’re worth it. You’re worth every damn second.” I kiss her again. “Now let’s bake a cake.”
“We’re at an Airbnb, how do you know if we even have ingredients?”
“Your mama made cornbread.” I start my hunt, opening other cupboard doors for their stash of ingredients. “And someone made those squares, so I’m sure we’ll find everything we need.”
“And a recipe? We left our phones in the guesthouse.”
I tap the side of my head. “It’s all in here.” I drag out a bag of flour and set it beside the bowl.
“You’re serious?” She shifts to face me, her hip still resting against the counter, the gap in her robe widening with every move, exposing more of her skin.
The soft curve is a momentary distraction.
“Up here, handsome.”
Maybe longer than a moment. My eyes flicker her hers, lit with humor and teasing.
“You think you’re baking a cake from memory?”
“You say that like it’s unreasonable.”
“It is. Completely.”
“And yet.” I pull sugar out from behind a box of oatmeal. “Here we are.”
I set the bag on the counter and open the drawers until I find a whisk. Not ideal, but it will suffice.
“What exactly are you trying to make?” She takes the whisk and twirls it around her fingers.
“I’m not trying, and the answer is cake.”
“Cake?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” She asks, as if she thinks I’ve forgotten what today is, but at the same time, she’s wondering if maybe I do remember.
I shrug. “Why not?”
I see the moment of disappointment in her eyes, but I will never forget this day. And when we finish, she’ll never question me again.
“Cocoa powder. Vanilla extract. Baking soda. I think we’re all set.”
