Page 98 of The Keeper

She let her gaze drift over my body before raising an eyebrow suggestively. “I can think of another reason.”

“Not when we’ve got to make…” I scanned the list hanging above the long, stainless steel counter before switching to a heavy French accent. “Pain au Chocolat, éclairs, canelés—oh, cinnamon rolls. I actually know that one.”

Piper grimaced as I butchered the pronunciation of every Frenchdessert on her menu before shaking her head. “That was…something. Let’s get started on the cinnamon rolls and go from there.”

“Funny story,” I said as I washed up. “I had a one-night stand with this pastry chef who promised to teach me how to make the best cinnamon rolls of my life…supposedly. I was worried she was gonna try to flake out on me, so I went ahead and knocked her up so we had a reason to run into each other again.”

Piper laughed, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “So crazy. I actually had a one-night stand with this biker who promised me breakfast after sex and then bailed on me before I woke up the next morning. Coincidentally, he also knocked me up.”

Chuckling, I leaned in close, the kitchen’s warmth enveloping us both. “Sounds like it was a really special night. Guy must have known what he was doing if you’re still thinking about him all these years later.”

“Keep it up, and you’ll find yourself on frosting duty for the entire day,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“If you need me to frost something, sugar, all you have to do is ask,” I teased, catching her around the waist and pulling her back against my chest. “I can give you as much frosting as you want, as many times as you want.”

“Really? As many times as I want?” She craned her neck, peering up at me with an arched brow.

“Well, within reason,” I conceded. “I’m a man, not a machine.”

Piper wriggled out of my grip to cover the dough. “Maybe try proving yourself with these cinnamon rolls first before promoting yourself to Head Frosting Technician.”

While she dusted flour across our work surface, I pulled a large tray of dough from the roll-in proofer. After demonstrating how to roll the dough into a large rectangle, she turned to me with the rolling pin and a smirk I knew all too well. “Make yourself useful.”

Accepting the challenge, I dusted the rolling pin with flour, my hands forcefully moving over the heavy dough.”

“Here,” Piper said, stepping in to guide my hands. “Front to back and left to right to start. You wanna start with lighter pressure at first. Think of it like revving up slowly.”

Her analogy drew a low chuckle from me. “Baby, if this were a bike, we’d have crashed already.”

She leaned over to correct my technique, her curvy body pressing against mine, making it hard to concentrate on baking. There was something incredibly erotic about watching her hands move skillfully, shaping and molding the dough as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

“Start in the center and press a little harder as you roll out diagonally toward the corners. Just make sure you work from the center out every time.”

We worked side by side, with her watching me with those bright green eyes that could either cool me down or set me on fire. Today, they did a bit of both.

“That’s not too bad,” she said after a moment, her shoulders relaxing as she observed my work. “But let’s see how you handle the filling.”

“Everyone knows the filling is crucial,” I played along, spreading the softened butter over the dough as evenly as I could manage. Piper mixed the brown sugar and cinnamon together, handing it over so I could sprinkle it across the buttered surface. The rich, sweet scent filled the air around us, mixing with the light trace of her candy apple body wash.

“Spread it all over. You wanna coat every inch,” she instructed, her hand briefly covering mine as she guided it. Her touch sent an inexplicable pulse through me, brief but potent in its ability to draw my full attention to her.

I wasn’t sure baking was supposed to leave me with a hard-on, yet everything she said felt as if it was laced with innuendo. Her subtle touches weren’t helping either.

“Okay, now we need to roll this into a tight log,” she explained, stepping back so I could get my hands on the dough. Her voice dipped an octave lower. “Make it tighter, Dane. We want them nice and tight.”

I couldn’t help myself. “Are you sure you’re just talking about cinnamon rolls here, darlin’?” My words were playful, but the underlying tension was palpable.

She snorted. “What? You don’t you like it nice and tight?” Her laugh didn’t quite hide the flush spreading across her cheeks.

“Baby, I fucking love it nice and tight.”

Rolling the dough into a log shape took more finesse than I’d anticipated, forcing me to pull back on the banter and focus on the task at hand.

Piper had to adjust my grip a few times, her hands guiding mine with a gentle firmness that made my heart pound harder than usual.

After rolling the dough into a perfect log and slicing it into rounds, Piper placed them onto a baking tray with practiced ease. “Now we’ll let these beauties proof before they go in the oven,” she said, wiping her brows with the back of her flour-dusted hand.

“And what am I supposed to do while waiting for the buns to rise?” I quipped, leaning against the counter close enough that our hips touched.

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