Page 64 of Butterfly Effect

Doug’s judgment comes down with a heavy side-eye, his worried expression making me chortle again.

“Judge me all you want, buddy. But I’m pretty sure Gabe Finch likes me now.”

I take it back.

And kinda regret giving her access to the penthouse.

No, no, that’s too far, but by the way, my kitchen has been turned into some sort of wholesale bakery at 4 a.m. two days before Gabe’s birthday party; she absolutely must hate me.

A KitchenAid whirs loudly on the back counter. Hair tied into a ratty top knot, haphazard swipes of flour marking her face and arms like war paint and donning a black apron that reads, “Don’t Test Me, I’ll Poison You,” Gabe moves through clouds of flour and icing sugar, which have appeared on every surface.

She frantically mixes the contents of one bowl, then turns to stir a pot on the stove before catching a few lemons escaping from the chaos by rolling off the marble. Raspberry-colored goo hisses and pops, splattering on the backsplash. She wipes her hands on the towel tucked into her apron string and lowers the heat before moving on.

It smells as delicious as she looks, but all the racket this early in the morning is enough to send anyone running away screaming. Good thing I’m not anyone.

Gabe doesn’t notice me nearing.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

She jolts and nearly drops the bowl of batter and whisk. When she regains composure and balance, she rubs the back of her hand against her forehead and sighs. “Eating ass. What does it look like I’m doing?”

My heart stops. “You do that?”

“I’m. Baking,” she grits through her teeth.

Okay, maybe now’s not the right time to ask, but we’ll be discussing this ass-eating situation later. Would I eat her ass? Absolutely. Would I let her eat my ass? Not sure if it’s a yes, but it’s not a no.

Oh, God. This morning wood has taken over my brain. She won’t even let you kiss her. Forget about anything else.

“Whyare you baking?” Sphincter clenched, I make it to the island and attempt to lean on it, but there’s not an inch of space.Dozens of already poured lemony cupcakes in trays sprawl the counter. “And here? It’s four in the fucking morning.” The heels of my hands dig into my eye sockets before dragging down my face.

“Your kitchen is bigger, and I thought you would’ve already left for the gym.” Her hand uses a scoop to drop batter into empty cupcake liners. “I bake when I’m stressed, and you throwing this stupid birthday party has mestressed.”

“Jesus. Who’s gonna eat all these?”

She returns a sarcastic laugh and keeps scooping. “That’s a problem for future-Gabe. Present-Gabe needs to finish this last batch before moving onto the icing.”

“If they’re any good, we could use them for the party. I’ll talk to Mathieu?—”

“What do you mean,if?” Gabe’s face returns to her signature glare and scowl. “I’ve been baking since I was thirteen years?—”

The red goo bursts again. We both yelp.

“It shows.”

She rolls her eyes, and my hard-on is not going away. I wanna push every button this woman has.

“How dare you? They’re delicious. And having them at the party is the first good idea you’ve ever had.”

Seriously, why do I like it when she insults me?

When she backpedals to turn off the stove, I hustle over to trap her between me and the edge of the counter, socks slipping in the white powder speckling the floor. My arms post themselves on either side of her hips. She shrinks away like the distance between us. I drop my head slightly to meet her at eye level.

The proximity sends my heart racing faster than it did at her sass, the flowery smell of her skin mixed with the sweet lemon in the air.

“Oh, Freckles. I have a lot of good ideas.”

Her breath hitches as her gaze flicks down to where my clothed cock remains upright. A muscle in her jaw tightens.

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