Page 45 of Sugar Baby Mine

There’s already a cutting board, a skillet, and a stack of bowls along with some packaged ingredients set out along the island.

“Peanut butter?” My brows raise at the jar amidst the items.

“That’s part of dessert.” He pauses as he pulls down a black apron from the side of the fridge, casting me a worried glance. “You don’t have a nut allergy, do you?”

“Mmmm, nope. Not allergic to anything as far as I know.”

His shoulders visibly relax, and he hooks the neck of the apron behind his head and ties it at the waist. When he turns around, he’s holding out another one for me to take.

“May the forks be with you?” I say, reading the white graphic print on the front of Ben’s chest. I take the apron from him and look down at the fabric. “Romaine calm and lettuce carrot on? Oh my God—” I can’t help the wheezing laugh that escapes. “Why are you such a dork?”

“What’s wrong with a little kitchen humor?”

I smack his forearm before he gets too deep into pouting. “Stop. I just—you’re so serious all the time, I wasn’t expecting it. Akiss the cookmaybe, but this is so…corny.”

It doesn’t take him any longer than it takes me to pull the apron over my head before he bands an arm around my waist and brings me in.

“Oh, that was good. My clever little bird.” He grins. There’s a hint of a dimple beneath the scruff of his beard, and I get the feeling he’d look so young if he shaved.

But I like him like this. Graying at the temples, eyes worn with wisdom, heart full of memories that outlive me.

“Now, now, let’s not get distracted. Show me what to do, chef.”

Ben’s gaze narrows in on my face, his grip tightening around my waist. The little hum that leaves his throat tells mechefis onequal terms todaddyorsirfor him, so I tuck that away should I need it later.

“Right,” he says, clearing his throat. “Let’s get to work or we’ll never get to eat.”

“Nowthatwould make me crazy. I don’t want hangry Emmeline coming out to play.”

“Is that worse than impatient, sassy, brat Emmeline?”

I shove out of his grasp and poke his chest with my finger, only successfully pushing myself away from him. “You’ll just have to find out organically.”

“Is that another produce pun?”

“Oh—” I laugh. “Maybe? I didn’t even realize it.”

He shakes his head, taking a step forward into my space again to reach for the strings of the apron behind my back, drawing them around to my front to tie them together. “If we want to eatany-thymesoon, we better get towok.”

“No, no, no—that’s terrible.” I push him away, stepping over to the sink to turn the tap on and wash my hands. “Okay, seriously that’s enough. Before I”—the word slips out before I can register it—“beetyou with a wooden spoon.” It takes me all of two seconds before I let out a screech, turning away from the sink with wet hands and flicking the water at him. “You’ve infected me with some kind of disease.”

“Uh-huh, sure.” Ben brushes the water droplets away before bumping me out of the way with his hip to wash his hands.

My hands drop to my hips, and I watch him with pursed lips.

He turns around, drying his hands, and then motions to the island with the spread of ingredients and cookware. “Let’s get to cooking before hangry Emmeline actually does show up.”

“She’s already halfway here…”

“Come on, you can smash the chicken with the rolling pin and get some of that anger out.”

“That’s a thing? Really?”

“Of course,” he says, opening the fridge to pull out a package of chicken breast and handing it to me. “Put them in a Ziploc and flatten them to about a quarter inch.”

“Okay, bet.”

He’s giving me his best impression of me right now with the way his eyes roll.

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