Page 48 of Just a Taste
She arches a brow and then marches across the room to press the apron into my chest. ‘We’re back toMs Jonesnow, are we?’
‘Do you prefer it?’
‘No,’ she says without a trace of hesitation. ‘I definitely prefer Noelle.’
Her voice has dropped to something that’s not quite awhisper, and her fingertips brush against me as she holds the apron against my chest.
I do too, I can’t help but think.
‘But, for the next…’ She trails off and glances up at the clock on the wall. ‘Hour and a half, it’s not Ms JonesorNoelle. It’sChef.’
I raise an eyebrow, a smirk playing on my lips. ‘Chef?’
She matches my smirk and gives the apron another sharp push into my chest. ‘Exactly. Now, put this on and come and help me.’
Should I be worried about the fact that Noelle ordering me around sends a heady rush of blood straight to my dick? Potentially. I’m not used to being ordered around, but apparently I like it.
I clear my throat, shaking my head slightly to rid my mind of the flurry of increasingly inappropriate thoughts currently flooding it. ‘And what exactly are we doing?’
She raises a brow expectantly.
‘Chef?’ I add.
Noelle beams at me and I swear the sight of her smiling widely is almost blinding. ‘I already told you. You need to have some fun and relax. So, we’re going to bake something.’
‘Because making a tart will solve all my problems?’ I ask, scepticism lacing my words.
‘Maybe not,’ she concedes, ‘but it’ll taste a lot better than eating spreadsheets for hours on end.’
I shake my head and watch as she flits towards the cupboards, her braids swishing behind her as she pulls out all the equipment and ingredients we need. She’s a force of nature, more powerful than the storm raging beyond the walls of my home, and I like it.
I like it a lot.
I stand up, drawn into her orbit as she rummages through my kitchen, and reluctantly pull the apron over my head.
‘I don’t have a word strong enough to describe how much I hate this,’ I grumble as I take in the dancing Santa and the grinning reindeer plastered across my front. This is, quite literally, my own personal hell.
Why am I going along with this?
Noelle glances back at me, her lips stretched into that megawatt grin again.
Ah, yes. That’s why.
‘Yeah,’ she shrugs. ‘It’s pretty ugly.’
‘So why wear it?’ Why evenownit?’
Another shrug. ‘It’s Christmas.’
‘That’s not an answer.’ And it’s not Christmas, but I sense that rebuttal won’t go down well a third time.
Noelle gives me a questioning look. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘No.’
That’s another thing I hate about this time of the year. People do the most outlandish, ridiculous things that goagainst every normal tenet of societal expectations and when you question them, they always have the same answer.
It’s Christmas.
