Page 198 of Indulge
I’ve faced assassins with less pressure.
By the time we start, Bella’s perched on the counter again, legs crossed, pretending to be innocent. She’s not. Every look she gives me is a dare.
“Alright, chefs,” she says, spinning the wooden spoon like a weapon. “Your mission: impress me.”
Reggie mutters, “Last time someone said that, I ended up with a gun in my face.”
“Different stakes,” I tell him. “Much scarier audience.”
“You don’t even know how to turn on an oven,” he snaps back.
“Details,” I say. “I’m an artist. I create.”
Bella smirks, slow and dangerous. “You mean you improvise until someone screams.”
I grin. “You love that about me.”
So I do what I do best—fake confidence. I grab a bowl, toss in sugar, something that might be flour, and start whisking like it owes me money.
Reggie watches in silent horror.
“You’re not even measuring,” he says.
“Cooking’s about instinct.”
“Baking’s about chemistry, genius.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m explosive,” I say, cracking an egg one-handed like I’ve seen on TV. Half of it misses the bowl.
Bella leans over, voice teasing. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”
“Of course,” I say. “I’ve watched baking shows. And I have a very sweet tooth.”
She hums, skeptical.
I feel her move behind me, close enough that her perfume wraps around my shoulders. Then a light smack lands on my bare ass.
I let out a growl, turning to face her.
“Focus, chef,” she says.
I almost drop the spoon.
Reggie groans. “Are we baking or flirting?”
“Can’t it be both?” she asks sweetly.
I can feel the tension in every laugh, every sarcastic quip. Reggie’s deadpan precision. Bella’s mock innocence. The ridiculous pink hats that somehow make it all worse.
Bella leaves me to concentrate and goes off to harass Reggie. Who is taking it well. But his face is telling me he’s picturing forty different ways to spank her.
“Rowan looks like he’s summoning demons,” she giggles to him.
“Just trying to channel your essence,” I shout back, tossing a handful of chocolate chips into the bowl.
Reggie sighs. “God help whoever eats this.”
“Technically,” I say, “that’s you.”
