Page 23 of Christmas With The Kings
“The fuck I did. How do you expect me to focus now? With you like…that.”
“Like what?” I batted my eyelashes and leaned forward on the counter, deliberately arching. “Festive? Wholesome? Jolly?”
“Naked,woman.” He started to round the island.
I yelped and raised my wooden spoon. “Not until the cookies are in the oven, big guy. Hands off the merchandise.”
“Sweetness…” His voice dropped. “I swear to God—”
“Nope. All this?” I sensuously waved the spoon over my body. “Is a reward. You bake first, and only then if you’ve created something edible can you have me.”
“You’re going to kill me,” he mumbled.
“No, the goal is to get you to potentially win the contest. Unless that was all a lie?”
“It wasn’t,” he grumbled.
“Good. I see you’ve got the stand mixer out already. You’re going to need it. A lot.” I danced over to the counter and pulled up a playlist on my phone.
I assessed the kitchen with fresh eyes. He had every bowl imaginable, and in various sizes, out and waiting. There were also enough ingredients to open a bakery. It looked like the entire baking aisle was crammed into this kitchen.
And I knew. He’d not done any of this alone. My heart filled with mad respect. Nothing better than a man who would humble himself and ask for help.
“Let me guess, Mrs. Patterson?”
“I will always defer to a professional. You should know that about me.”
“Uh-huh. And now that I think about it, I’d say some of that Christmas flair out there,” I notched my head toward the living area, “screams your mother.”
“Guilty. Well, her and Martina. They came to our rescue.”
“Our?” I grinned, catching on even more. This wasn’t only about him.
“My brothers and I—yes, they are in on this too. You’ll get a day with them as well. To make up for the clear fuck-up.”
“Well, let’s get to work, shall we?” I didn’t wait for him to answer. If the playroom was his domain—the kitchen was mine. “We’re making cinnamon cardamom shortbread stars. Then peppermint fudge bars. Maybe those little almond bites Owen used to love. He always made me do the snowflake cutouts. Said I had the most delicate hands.” My voice caught for half a second. I shook it off.
Alek noticed. “I heard you two used to pick out trees together.”
“Marcus blabbed, huh?”
He shrugged and looked bashful. “I’m sorry I missed how important the season is for you. From what Marcus said, Owen made holidays special.”
I nodded, focusing on the bowl in front of me. “He did. We’d turn up cheesy music, bake for hours, fight over the last egg. One year, he let me decorate the whole cabin. Chopped down the ugliest tree simply because I said I had to have it in my bedroom. In my defense, it looked lonely.”
Alek stepped closer, his body warm against mine. “He’d be proud of you, kitten.”
“Yeah?” I whispered.
He brushed his knuckles down the back of my thigh, lingering at the top of the sock line. “Absolutely. But just so you know, if I lose this baking contest, I’m blaming your thighs. And your ass. And this ridiculous apron situation.”
I turned, dragging my finger in the cup of flour and coating it. I booped him on the nose with it. “Focus, chef. There’s a gold star pussy with your name on it. That is, if you can pay attention.”
He grinned. “Alright. What’s first?”
“What does the recipe card say?”
“Cream the butter and sugar.” He looked at the recipe as if it were written in Japanese. “That means what, exactly?”
