Page 52 of Finally Moore

“Are you seriously going to trust me to do this while you’re blindfolded? I suck at cooking. Like, I can actually burn water,” I say nervously. I really don’t want to ruin his recipe.

“What about those award-winning fish tacos you teased me with?”

“Okay, sure, I can cook some things… but this? I’ll ruin it.”

“Do you trust me?” he asks.

“Yes,” I answer without a second thought.

“Yes, chef,” he corrects in a more commanding tone.

“Yes, chef,” I purr.

“Good girl.” He grips my hips firmly and turns me to face the counter. “Do as I say, and it’ll be perfect.”

Did someone turn up the heat in the house?Because I went from freezing to needing to fan myself in seconds.

“Okay.” I nod and he smacks my ass. “I meanyes, chef.”

“That’s my angel,” he whispers in my ear. “I’ve already whisked together the dry ingredients. Now, you need to cut in the butter.”

“Cut in the butter?” I repeat on a chuckle. The concept sounds ridiculous.

“That’s fancy baking lingo for mixing it in. Since the butter’s cold, it needs a little more muscle to combine it with the flour. You could do it with a food processor but I much prefer to do things by hand. Crust is too delicate, in my opinion, to entrust to machines. I like being in control.”

A shiver runs down my spine. Clearly Scott’s need for control extends far past the kitchen.

“Pour the chopped butter into the bowl of flour,” he tells me, and I do as instructed. “Grab the pastry knife.”

My eyes flick around the counter but come up short. Without having to look, Scott reaches across and grabs this weird curved tool with a handle and places it into my open palm.

“Push it down into the butter and rock it forward,” Scott says. Then, like he’s a master puppeteer, he maintains control of my hand and demonstrates. “Do this… while rotating the bowl.”

“Like this?” I ask as I follow his instructions.

“Perfect,” he says into my neck. “Keep going. You want to mix until the dough is reduced to pea-sized clumps.”

“No wonder you have such strong arms,” I mumble. Mine are already exhausted. “Is this good?”

Scott reaches into the dish and touches the dough. “A little more,” he tells me, and I complete a few more rotations. “That’s good,” he declares a few seconds later without even having to check. “Wait here.” Scott hardly uses his hands to help guide himself to the freezer, where he retrieves a bottle of vodka before resuming his position beside me at the counter.

“Impressive,” I say with a low whistle.

“This is just the start, Angel. I can show you much more fun things to do with a blindfold. It’s amazing what happens to your other senses when one is deprived.”

I suddenly lose all interest in baking, and as if sensing my change of heart, Scott returns my focus to the task at hand.

“If you’re a good girl and do as I say, maybe I’ll show you.”

“Yes, chef.”

He clears his throat. “But first, we need to finish this crust. Otherwise, we’ll have no pies for tomorrow. And believe me, you don’t want to see what sort of temper tantrums Jake can throw if he doesn’t get his Christmas pies.”

“Fine,” I huff, and Scott swats my butt again. “Yes, chef.” I roll my eyes because, let’s face it, seeing Jake have a meltdown would be hilarious.

“Now, you need to put a quarter cup of ice-cold water into the measuring cup. Use the strainer to prevent ice chunks from getting in.” He hands me the utensil in question.

I bend over to get eye level with the cup, purposely rubbing my ass against his crotch. “Like this, chef?” I tease.

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