Page 46 of Sugar Baby Mine

Although, finding said Ziploc bag is a task and a half.

I open every cabinet and drawer without him saying a word, like watching me fumble in his kitchen that costs more than my college tuition is amusing. I lift up from the bottom drawer to the right of the stove and smack the box on the counter before blowing out a breath that makes my bangs fly up. I miss my sticky notes littered all over my kitchen, telling me where everything is in case my goldfish memory reigns.

Pushing up the loose sleeves of my dress to my elbows, I settle in for my task. Which is kind of fun. I press down with the rolling pin over the chicken in the bag, and it takes a bit of effort that has me leveraging my height over the counter.

When I’m finished, Ben’s watching me as he fills a pot with water from the sink.

“What’s next?” I ask, taking the thinned pieces of chicken and stacking them on top of the bag.

He shuts off the tap and sets the pot on the stove, flicking the burner on to start the flame. “You know how to boil water?”

“I’m not that clueless,” I scoff.

He raises a brow. “You said the only thing you could make was scrambled eggs.”

“Okay—but I guess notliterally. I can boil water for pasta and manage to cook it until it either still has a little crunch or is entirely too soft, but that’s not really cooking—especially when I only put butter on the noodles afterwards.”

“Just butter?”

“What? It’s good.”

“Butter is barely even a flavor.”

“Well, continue with our cooking lesson and maybe you’ll impart some wisdom on me.”

Ben motions me toward him, and I step forward as he positions me to stand in between the counter and himself, molding into my back as he leans over me. I’m suddenly having a very hard time concentrating. More so than normal.

But I want to learn. I want to be able to make myself something to eat without it being a highly-processed frozen dinner or ordering takeout every day, wondering how I spend all my money.

Ben leans in, fingers gently tucking my hair behind my ear before his breath blows over my skin and heat travels all along my spine.

I ignore it.

Sort of.

He guides my hand to the spice jars and drags them toward me. “We’re going to season the chicken—salt, pepper, and Italian seasoning.”

I can barely hear him over the blood rushing in my ears.

“Next, we coat them in the flour.”

He guides me to pick up the chicken and though the texture is beyond unappealing to my sensitivities, I drop it in the bowl of flour and then flip it over till it’s covered.

“Easy peasy.”

“Good. Let me heat up the skillet, then we sear it.”

His warmth leaves and I turn, watching him place the skillet on the stove before moving to wash my hands again.

He coats the bottom with a splash of olive oil from the bottle and turns the burner on. “Multitasking is important if you want all of your food to be hot at the same time.”

“Oh, I’m doomed then. That’s one of my worst skills.”

“That’s why it’s easier with two people.”

That makes sense. Why does that make so much sense? I suppose when you have an elegant and spacious kitchen, it’s easy enough. Cora and I can barely stand at the sink and the stove at the same time without bumping elbows trying to do anything.

“So, while this heats up, we’re going to put some heavy whipping cream in the mixer.”

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