Page 11 of Yours Temporarily

“And I’m ever so grateful you’re here.” My whole body feels light as I finish tying his apron strings. There’s a sophisticated scent coming off him, subtle yet captivating.

As he meticulously washes his hands, I struggle not to look at him. Still, I watch the movement of his strong forearms, and my mouth dries. Wait—am I drooling?

Get a grip, girl! Clicking my tongue at myself, I move to the empty sink beside him and turn on the faucet. I lather the soap to wash my hands, though not with his thoroughness. After drying my hands with a paper towel, I cross to the long counter to gather the necessary supplies and ingredients for our first baking adventure together.

“What are we making?” He wipes his hands and cocks his head, leaning in behind me.

“Shortbread cookies.” I peep over my shoulder to check his reaction.

“Did I happen to tell you they’re my favorite?”

“I had to go with some favorites if we’re diving into deep matters.” My chest warms, a connection already forming in this shared activity. The night we met, I learned all the basics about him.

He steps closer, his presence dominating the space. “What do you want me to do?”

“There’s a mixer in that bag.” I point to the red tote. “If you don’t mind getting it, that would be great.”

When he retrieves the hand mixer, I open the sugar bag and pass him the measuring cup. “Pour two-third cups of sugar into the mixing bowl,” I instruct. As he delicately pours the sugar, almost as if fearing his arm might break, I cut in butter, splash vanilla, and sprinkle salt into the same bowl. Once we’ve creamed that, I set him to open the flour. “While the cookies bake, we’ll start on dinner.”

“What’s for dinner?” He dips the cup into the flour. Is he that meticulous by nature or just trying to avoid making a mess?

“Steak fajitas and veggies.” At his precision movements, a mischievous thought teases me. Imagining his neatly trimmed beard or face smeared with a bit of a mess, I struggle to suppress a cackle.

“What’s so funny?” He eyes me, his eyebrows rising.

“Remember how I talked about food wars in our home kitchen?”

“Uh-oh. What exactly are food wars again?”

I dig my hand into the flour, scoop a handful, and step on tiptoes to smudge it on his cheek. He gasps followed by a comically exaggerated frown.

“That’s a food war.” I flick the rest at his apron.

Jeremy swats flour off the now-dusty red apron. Then, his grin mischievous, he reaches for the flour bag. “Ah, a food fight. Well, now you’re going to get it!”

“No, don’t!” I shield myself with my hand and scoot further away. He thrusts his hand into the bag, and I dash off, my laughter echoing around the kitchen.

“You’re not getting away with this, Zuri.”

Uh-oh. I love the way my name slips off his tongue. Could be why I stop running and he catches up to smear my left cheek with flour and then my right.

“Not fair.” I protest as we engage in a playful tussle of me trying to get the bag from him, which is ridiculous when he simply holds it over our heads. To reach, I’d have to climb him like a monkey to a tree. Unless… I tickle his side, and the bag comes down. As I scoop it, our laughter floats with the flour now flying everywhere until we’re both dusted as white as powder sugar doughnuts.

While we catch our breath, he brushes some flour from my face, tracing the curve of my cheek. I can scarcely breathe as his fingers trail slowly, lingering, edging toward my mouth. It might be intentional. It takes willpower not to nip his flour-coated fingertip as he locks his eyes with mine. In that instant, time seems to pause as if we’ve forgotten the world outside, and awareness simmers between us. Thick and unmistakable.

I look away, clearing my throat. “We, uh, made quite a mess.” My voice sounds ridiculously strange! And now I’m afraid to look at him. I survey the kitchen floor coated in a fine layer of flour.

“Worth it.” At his chuckle, I manage to look into blue eyes still a twinkle. My cheeks warm, but my smile stretches wide.

“Now we got carried away and used up all the flour.” I crouch to pick up the bag. “That means no cookies.”

“There’s not enough for too many cookies, but there’s enough for our dinner.” He points to the mixing bowl.

Our impromptu flour fight confirms he’s slipped into my world, turning an ordinary evening into something delightful. Cooking dinner together feels just right.

“You better show me what to do next if those cookies are going to get baked.”

Right. I dust the flour off my apron.

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