Page 41 of The Fire We Crave

I turn the oven on and then grab a block of butter out of the freezer. Another trick my mom taught me.

You want a good scone, Quinn, simply freeze, then grate the butter.

I think of her as I do what she taught me. I cut the little frozen curds into the flour and mix lightly so every chip of butter ends up coated in the flour. I put it back in the freezer while I zest some lemons and juice them. Next, I whisk all the wet ingredients together, pausing only when the coffee pot splutters to a halt.

Then, I grab and pour a large mug. It’s too hot, but I take a gulp anyway. The rich and bold liquid burns on the way down as it passes through my throat and into my stomach.

The nutty brew and scent of lemons are comforting and familiar. They bring a calm to my racing thoughts and the way my body responded to waking up in Smoke’s arms.

It felt so good. So right, and yet wrong.

I can’t decide if I’m contemplating a relationship with him, or I’m simply frustrated by all these inconvenient feelings.

It should be the latter.

Right?

Especially when we haven’t even talked about what happened in the aftermath of Melody’s disappearance.

I force myself to focus back on the bowl in front of me. The final step for the recipe is to mix in the blueberries and combine everything to form the dough for the scones.

Habit kicks in as I mindlessly turn the bowl and scrape the spatula against it. It helps me fight the growing knots in my stomach.

The bowl spins faster as the mixture comes together. Then, I throw some flour down onto the marble counter and grab the dough out of the bowl before slamming it down.

“You always this angry when you bake?” Smoke asks. His voice is raw and throaty and catches me off-guard. I jump in surprise before I force myself to look at him.

Maybe a miracle will happen, and he won’t be able to read my thoughts, which are likely written all over my face. He’s shirtless and barefoot. With the jeans unzipped, I can see the way a narrow trail of hair dips from his belly button before disappearing just below the zipper.

His abs are defined, yet part of them is wrapped in dressing.

“I got it,” Smoke says. “The ingredients pissed you off.”

I shake my head. “Sometimes, you just need to get it finished fast. Someone made a mess of the bread.”

Smoke comes and sits on the other side of the kitchen island. He takes my coffee cup and sips from it, a truly intimate thing to do, and I imagine a future where the two of us wake on a Monday morning, my day off, and set about a ritual just like this together. Maybe I bake, and he makes the coffee. Or perhaps it’s winter, and he goes outside and shovels the drive before lighting a fire so we can enjoy the coffee and sweet treats together.

“Are they going to be sweet?” he asks.

I shrug. “Maybe. Depends on who’s tasting them.”

The dough is cold beneath my fingers as I move quickly to shape it into a circle.

“I don’t like sweet,” Smoke says, and I stop my movements.

“You don’t have to eat them.”

I don’t know why, but I sense we aren’t talking about the lemon blueberry scones anymore.

Smoke inhales. I see the way his shoulders rise and fall.

Unspoken words hang between us, anchoring us in one place.

My breath stalls.

The oven dings, telling me it reached temperature.

When I reach for the handle of the knife, my hand shakes a little, and I have to work to control it as I cut the dough into ten triangles.

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