Page 67 of How Sweet It Is

He glances at me, eyes twinkling. “Only the holy kind.”

I nudge him with my elbow. “Can I help?”

“What if you get your SpongeBob shirt dirty?” he teases.

“I’ve survived worse.” I grab a whisk and reach for the bowl, but he moves it out of reach.

“Hey,” he says. “What do you think you’re doing with that whisk?”

“Is this not right?” I’m holding back a laugh, because I don’t know what I’m doing in the kitchen, and I’m pretty sure I’m freaking him out.

“Do you really want me to teach you how to make scones?”

I grin at him. “Just the parts that will get these in the oven so we can get on to more important things.”

He leans in slightly, flour dusting the edge of his shirt. His voice dips low, a little playful, a little serious, and it doessomething traitorous to my pulse. “All right. But I might need to guide your hands.”

Heat rises up my neck.

I hold his gaze for a second too long. “Like yesterday? Are we re-creating thatGhostmovie again?”

He grins, but it fades just slightly at the edges. “Only if you promise not to ghost me after.”

I freeze, the mood shifting subtly between us. That weight is back, the one I felt before typing on the keypad. But I’m already here. I chose this. I chose him.

I put a hand on the edge of the counter, steadying myself as he rolls out the dough. “Levi, I’m not trying to play games with you. I’m here, right now. Do we really have to worry about what’s going to happen in the future?”

He doesn’t look at me right away. Instead, he grabs a round cutter and presses out a perfect scone shape. “I know you’re not playing games,” he says quietly. “But it still kind of feels like you’re standing halfway in the doorway. Like you’re already thinking about the exit.”

I chew on my lip, watching him place the scones on a parchment-lined tray. “I’ve never done this before.”

He glances at me. “Baking?”

“Relationships.”

That gets his full attention. He sets the cutter down. “I was right? You’ve never dated anyone?”

I shake my head. “There was never time. Or maybe I was just too scared. Or maybe I didn’t trust anyone enough.”

His eyes soften, but there’s still hurt lingering beneath. “And you trust me now?”

“I’m trying to.”

Silence stretches between us, charged and unspoken. Then he clears his throat and grabs the tray. “Well. Let’s get these inthe oven before I start talking about my feelings like a Lifetime movie.”

“Hey,” I say, catching his arm. “You’re allowed to talk about your feelings.”

He turns and faces me fully now. We’re closer than before. The scent of vanilla and buttermilk clings to the air between us. “You scare me, Claire.”

That surprises me. “Me?”

He nods slowly. “Yeah. Because I want more. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

I swallow hard. “What if I want more too? Even if I don’t know what that means yet.”

He studies me for a long moment. Then he lifts one gluten-free flour-dusted finger and touches the corner of my mouth. “You’ve got a little something right here.”

My insides flutter as a thousand butterflies take flight. “I do not.”

---