Page 8 of Sweet Rucking Temptation
"So, Elliott," Liv says, leaning in conspiratorially, "want to hear about the Great Cupcake Disaster of 2024?"
I raise an eyebrow, grateful for the distraction. "Do I ever."
Liv's eyes dance with mischief. "Picture this: It's my bakery's grand opening. I've spent weeks perfecting these lavender-honey cupcakes. They're my pièce de résistance."
"Sounds fancy," I offer, a hesitant smile tugging at my lips.
"Oh, they were. Until..." She pauses dramatically. "The air conditioning broke."
Oscar leans in, intrigued. "Uh oh."
"Uh oh is right," Liv continues. "By the time I noticed, I had a case full of sad, melted cupcake puddles. And my first customer was due any minute!"
I wince sympathetically but can't help chuckling at the mental image. "What did you do?"
"The only thing I could do." Liv grins. "I grabbed some spoons, slapped a 'Deconstructed Cupcake Sundae' sign on the case, and prayed."
The laughter bubbles out of me before I can stop it, surprising even myself. Oscar's eyebrows shoot up, and I realize it's probably the most unguarded he's seen me in public in years.
"And?" I prompt, genuinely curious about the outcome.
"They sold out in an hour," Liv says triumphantly. "Sometimes disaster is just an opportunity in disguise. Or, you know, a mess with a fancy name slapped on it."
As I dissolve into laughter, I feel the last of my defenses crumbling. Liv's resilience, her ability to find humor in setbacks – it's intoxicating. I find myself leaning closer, drawn in by her warmth and the feeling that's blooming between us.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I'm not thinking about rugby, or expectations, or maintaining my carefully crafted image. I'm just... here. Present. Enjoying the company of this fascinating woman who turns cupcake catastrophes into triumphs.
When our laughter fades into comfortable conversation, I sink lower in my seat, closer to her. I'm in no hurry for this night to end.
Oscar's hand claps my shoulder, and I glance up to see him giving me a knowing wink. "I'm gonna grab another drink." He nods towards the bar. "You two good?"
I feel a flicker of panic. Is he abandoning me? But Liv's warm smile steadies me.
"We're great," she says, and I find myself nodding.
As Oscar melts into the crowd, I turn back to Liv, increasingly hyper-aware of how close we're standing. The fairy lights strung across the bar cast a soft glow on her olive skin. I want to reach out and touch her cheek.
I clear my throat. "So, uh, baking. It's a bit like rugby, isn't it?"
Liv's eyebrows shoot up, a laugh dancing in her eyes. "Oh, absolutely. I'm constantly tackling my sourdough starter."
"No, I mean–" I fumble, feeling heat creep up my neck. "The precision, the timing. One wrong move and everything falls apart."
Her expression softens. "I hadn't thought of it that way, but you're right. There's an art to both, isn't there? Reading the play or reading a recipe. Knowing when to push and when to let things rest."
I nod eagerly, warming to the topic. "Exactly! And the teamwork – in rugby, it's your mates on the field. In baking, it's?—"
"The ingredients." Liv’s eyes sparkle. "Flour and yeast working together to create something greater than the sum of their parts."
"Like a perfect scrum," I murmur, lost in the metaphor and the way her hands dance as she speaks.
"Though I imagine there's less flour in your face at the end of a rugby match," she teases.
I laugh, picturing my teammates covered in flour instead of mud. "You'd be surprised. Things can get pretty messy out there."
As we talk, I feel something unfurling in my chest – a lightness I haven't experienced in years. With Liv, I'm not the 'Iceman' or the rugby star. I'm just Elliott, trading baking puns and sports analogies, marveling at how easily our worlds seem to blend.
The bar's ambient chatter fades to a distant hum as I lean in closer, drawn by Liv's infectious enthusiasm. My heart quickens, not from exertion on the rugby field, but from a different kind of thrill.
