Page 276 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
“Tell me more about your Meemaw.” He forces the words painfully out.
“She kept a drawer full of cookie cutters shaped like woodland animals. Natalie was always taking off with them to play farm animals in a corner.”
He scoops a teaspoon into the baking soda with me trapped in front of him, between his arms.
“She’d let us mix the dough with our hands.” My fingers continue to click the sifter. “She said it built character.”
“Smart woman.” He dumps the dry ingredients into my bowl as he measures them out.
“She was.” My voice is soft with my memories of her. “My parents were always busy at the lodge, and I practically lived at the front desk.” I set the sifter on the counter as he stirs the ingredients before sliding the bowl away.
“I know that childhood.” Without measuring, he takes a chunk of butter, drops it in a small bowl, and begins to cream it into the sugar.
His forearms flex at my sides. I can’t see them through the robe, but I feel them, and I can envision the muscles and the web of veins that snake over his biceps.
If I weren’t wet between the legs before we started, I would be now. But this man wants to bake a random cake on a day meant for such a cake. Not that he remembers, and not that I expect him to.
“But when Meemaw showed up, she always made time for us.” I rest my hands on his as he continues to cream the butter, unable to resist touching him. “Crafts, baking, sewing. Whatever kept our hands busy while teaching us.”
His hands move steadily, the subtle ridges of his skin against mine.
“She taught us everything she knew, so we’d grow up capable, independent, and free to build good lives on our own.”
“She sounds like an amazing person.” He kisses the side of my head, and that light action feels like everything I’ve ever wanted.
“She was. I miss her.”
He cracks an egg against the side of the bowl, splits it open over the sugar and creamed butter, and then holds out the next one to me.
As I crack the egg, I expect his lips to resume their spot on my neck, but instead, he beats the mixture before adding it slowly to the dry ingredients, stirring between each addition.
His whisking isn’t exactly graceful. It’s more like he’s trying to keep his hands moving and off me.
“Your Meemaw reminds me of my Ma.” A dusting of flour clings to his knuckles. “Raised us on grit and powdered sugar. She always says if a man can’t make cornbread and fold a fitted sheet, he’s got no business calling himself grown.”
His focus is intense, like he’s trying really hard to keep it together and not scoop me up and take me on this counter.
I love the idea.
“I’d pay good money to see you fold a fitted sheet.” I rest my head on his chest and tilt my head to take in this view of him.
His familiar scruff, strong angles, lashes shadowing his cheek, all just here, so close.
“I’ll add it to the list. Right after I impress you with my highly experimental cake.” He smirks down at me and kisses my forehead.
My insides swoon. These little kisses are going to be the undoing of me.
“I thought you knew what you’re doing?”
“I have a rough idea.”
I dip a finger into the batter and taste.
“It’s good.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I am.” I dip my finger and lift it to him.
