Page 8 of If Tomorrow Never Comes

The heat of his body surrounded her, but he said nothing for a long moment. Finally, she tipped her head up and met his gaze.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he said in a low voice. Her stomach fluttered at the way his eyes tracked a path across every inch of her face, from her hairline to her lips. “I’m starting to think this was the best idea I ever had.”

Same.

His arm brushed hers, his skin warm and smooth. “You’re not whisking,” he whispered.

“Shit.” She moved her attention to the saucepan as she pushed him away. “Stop distracting me with ...” She trailed off.

He arched a brow. “With?”

She made a frustrated noise in the back of her throat, flapping her free hand in his direction without looking. “You know. Everything you’ve got going on there. The glasses, the hair, the dimple. It’s distracting.”

“The only thing distracting over here is you.”

This was bad. “And now, with the flirting. Save it for later. I want to eat a soufflé before I go back to my hotel.”

“You flirted firs— Wait. Hotel?” His entire torso faced her. “Do you not live here?”

She kept her eyes on the thickening sugar mixture. “Oh, um, no. Just visiting.”

Please leave it at that.

“I didn’t realize.” The disappointment in his tone was unmistakable. “Where are you from?”

“Lincoln.” She probably shouldn’t have even given him that much, but she was a terrible liar. Avoidance, redirection, and vague responses were no problem, but a direct question like that was hard to sidestep.

Lincoln and Omaha were barely an hour apart, so that perked him up a little. “Oh, cool. Are you here for work? Fun?” When she hesitated, he added, “Sorry. Too nosy? You don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.”

She never hated cancer more than at times like these, when she had a glimpse of what her life could be without it: a date with a handsome man whenever she wanted, with butterflies in her stomach and stars in her eyes. “I’d rather not. I’m sorry. It’s just ... the reason I’m here isn’t pleasant, and you’re doing a wonderful job of distracting me from it.”

The quiet air around them turned somber, and she chanced a glance at him. He looked stricken, standing stock-still. “Is everything okay?”

“Hopefully.”

He opened his mouth and then closed it, as if unsure how to respond. She couldn’t blame him, and odds were good he wouldn’t know what to say if she’d told the truth, either. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No.” Suddenly antsy, she dipped her head to rub her cheek against her shoulder, just above the port implanted in her chest. Her arm was getting tired, and she switched sides. The thought of explaining her sore arm to the nurse tomorrow brought an unexpected smile, though. “Actually, yes.” He swayed toward her, waiting. “This. You can beatthose eggs, make me laugh, and feed me a delicious soufflé to keep my mind off what happens tomorrow.”

After a few moments, the intense Jamie from before returned, and he nodded. “I can do that. Just wait. I’ll make the stiffest fucking egg whites you’ve ever seen.”

Chapter Three

Jamie

Twenty minutes later, four ramekins were in the oven. The remainder of the process had gone relatively smooth, save another fit of laughter when the recipe instructed them to fold in the egg whites, for which they’d simultaneously slid into character as David and Moira Rose without missing a beat.

“Stop peeking.”

May shot up from where she’d been crouching at the oven window. “Why?”

“There’s nothing we can do now but wait. They’ll rise or they won’t. We succeeded or we failed, and it’s time to let them go. What happens, happens.”

“Extreme Baker Jamie is back, I see.”

He held back a grin. “Who-Cares-If-We-Chill-the-Batter-or-Not May is suddenly very interested in the outcome.”

“Fine.” She pursed her lips and leaned back against the counter, crossing her arms. “I won’t peek if you give me a secret.”

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