Page 15 of The Naughty Elf

Shaking the goosebumps away, I stop at Jackson's door. Most of our exchanges couldn’t be decisively seen as flirting, but the back and forth is just as invigorating. I seem to pull the combative nature out of him.

He smiles at me now, reclining in his office chair as he turns to me. “Ginger. I was just going to go to lunch. Want me to grab you anything?”

I lean against the doorframe and shake my head. “No. I brought something, but I had some inspiration for a new recipe. You don’t mind if I take over the kitchen, do you?”

Jackson’s eyes light up. “It’s all yours. As long as I get to try what you make.”

I laugh a little. “Of course.”

When his gaze dips along my backside, I have a sneaking suspicion that we’re talking about something else. Excusing myself to the kitchen, I open my lunch—a homemade burrito bowl—and take a few bites as I gather the ingredients for a chocolate roulade and a Swiss buttercream.

Sawyer comes in as I put the sponge into the oven to bake for ten minutes. He settles at the far end of the counter opposite where I’m working. His glass Tupperware reveals a home-cooked meal.

“Mmm. That smells good.” I smile wide at Sawyer, whose stormy gaze meets mine for a few long beats before it drops to my lunch.

“Yours looks good.”

“Thanks.” I take a bite, chewing and watching him as he eats.

He doesn’t usually eat here, so is he staying for me or for the treats baking in the oven?

We have a staring contest as we eat, both of us only looking away long enough to stab another forkful of food. His jaw is sharp and strong as he chews. His mouth purses just right.

If we weren’t at work, I’d round this counter and find my way into his lap, draw those big hands around my waist. I bet, as big as he is, that he’d handle me gently, squeeze my softness.

I swear his eyes darken as if he can read my thoughts. I bite my lip, and his gaze follows the movement before springing back up to my eyes.

He’s lucky—or maybe we both are—that the oven timer beeps. I pull the sponge out to let it cool.

I need to whip up the buttercream, so I set a new bowl on the island between us to separate the eggs. I need six egg whites. Sawyer watches, ever observant. The quiet ones usually are, too. Observant, focused, and attentive.

When I look around for a mixer, I frown. “You happen to know where a mixer is?”

Abandoning his food, he circles the counter into the kitchen and pulls what I need from a spot I never would have stored the thing. I shake my head but grin at him as he slides it next to me.

“Ever make a Swiss buttercream?”

Sawyer shakes his head. “Not much of a baker.”

“Mm. Want to help me anyway?” I blink up at him. He’s so close, just the right distance away to be able to press my chest against his. I ponder reaching out to touch his stomach, whichhas to be rock hard, damn it. The way his shirts cling to him is unseemly.

“Okay.”

“Know how to set up a double boiler?”

He’s moving before I finish the question. I find myself craving his body heat. Instead, I peek at him as he pulls the pan out and sets the water to simmer. I stir sugar into the egg whites and meet him at the stove.

It brings us nearly hip to hip except that he towers over me. I peer up at him as I whisk slowly. He stands so rigidly stillthat I have to elbow him and hip-check him a few times out of apure need to push him to relax.

The tension between us swells, and when I rub the mixture between my fingers, his brows furrow.

“Need to see if the sugar has dissolved. At home, I’d use an infrared thermometer.”

Sawyer nods, his energy prickling against my exposed collarbones.

“Did you want to feel?”

“Dirt under my fingernails. Wouldn’t taste good.”

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