Page 12 of All Mine
‘Believe me, my pancakes are far too good to only have once a year.’ He looked extremely confident about the fact. Her stomach rumbled loudly, and she pressed a hand against herself.
‘Hungry?’ he asked. ‘Stay for brunch?’
The temptation was there. And not for pancakes. The idea of it flashed through her head, staying, talking, topping pancakes with banana and Nutella, or lemon and sugar. Sitting together. Maybe brushing hands, holding eyes. She shook herself mentally. However nice he was to look at, she didn’t need this type of distraction. In fact, she didn’t need any distractions at all if she was to get the restaurant open in time. She tapped her watch and smiled ruefully.
‘Got an electrician coming in ten. Better get back. But thanks,’ she added.
‘Another time,’ he said and it wasn’t a question. He was certainly confident. And surely getting brunch with him wouldn’t hurt? It wasn’t like she couldn’t control herself around him, was it?
‘Thanks again for the wrench– or whatever you call it,’ she said, standing up to leave.
‘Taste the mixture for me, Isabella?’ he asked. ‘Before you go?’ It was the first time he’d used her name and it sounded strange.
He held out a spoon. Her stomach rumbled again, and he laughed.
‘Seriously, it sounds like you need it.’
His eyes were such a clear green and they held a challenge in them. One which she couldn’t resist. She stepped forward, close enough to smell the soap on his skin.
He dipped the tip of the spoon and stirred, the sleeve of his T-shirt catching on his bicep. Scooping the batter, he held the spoon out to her, as if to feed her, one eyebrow lifted. But that was a step too far. Isabella laughed.
‘I’ll do it,’ she said and took the spoon from him. She tasted the mix, not afraid of the raw eggs in it, having tasted cake mixtures and recipes in her mother’s kitchen ever since she could remember. The batter was sublime. Silky, with added vanilla. It would make the fluffiest, lightest, most delicious pancakes. She shut her eyes in appreciation and then laughed.
‘Not bad.’ She shrugged cheekily and he grinned back, knowing all too well how good it was.
As Isabella reached to pass the spoon back, Etienne stretched for it and their knuckles knocked awkwardly. The cutlery went flying out of her hands, through the air and back into the bowl, sending pancake mix in all directions. The batter was everywhere: over the table, spattering the immaculate worktop. There was a moment of silence as they surveyed the mess. Isabella held her breath, not sure whether to laugh or not. He broke the silence.
‘You don’t have to sabotage my recipe, you know. Your restaurant’s not even open yet!’ Etienne was smiling as he turned towards her, obviously joking, making her wonder if that was how he operated. Whether it was all just charm, just banter. But then his smile slipped and he nodded at her arm, more seriously. A large streak of pale cream batter rested on the inside of her wrist. She held it out in front of her so as not to let it drip further. He stepped closer and took hold of her hand, gentle pressure from his fingers holding her in place. Her mouth went dry. The second time they’d touched in a few days, only this time it felt very much like he was in control.
‘What a mess,’ Etienne said quietly, watching the batter glisten on her olive skin. She was surprised by his warmth, the way his palm took the weight of her hand in his, so that it felt weightless, tiny. He eyed her wrist solemnly and then lifted his eyes in question. ‘Can I clean that up for you?’
He was so close. She could see the glint of different greens in his eyes, framed by the darkness of his lashes, his brows. Isabella swallowed and nodded as though hypnotised, conscious of his skin on her skin. Every cell in her body felt alert, the hair on her arms stood up like antennae. She stood transfixed and heard the breath catch in her own throat as, instead of reaching for a cloth or a paper towel to clean her skin, he brought her wrist up to his parted lips without taking his eyes from her own for a single second. The heat of his open mouth on the tenderest part of her arm, the sudden slick of his tongue as he licked the batter from her skin, sent a jolt of excitement straight through her.
He lifted his lips and showed her the clean, glossy skin of her own arm.
‘All gone,’ he said, with that damned smile.
Isabella opened her mouth to say something, but shut it again. Wait. What was happening here? She was a career woman. She had qualifications. She was independent and she was fierce. So why couldn’t she string a single sentence together? He was watching her intently, pressing his lips together as though to savour the taste.
‘The plumber,’ she muttered.
‘I thought it was an electrician.’ Etienne grinned.
She tugged her arm free, and he let it go instantly. She wasn’t sure if she was happy or disappointed about that. The press of his mouth still scorched her skin and she felt an intense desire to hold her wrist with her fingers, to touch the site of his kiss.
‘I’d better go. Thanks again.’ God, this sex ban was making her into a stammering fool.
‘You liked the pancake mix, though?’ Etienne asked as she reached the door. She paused and glanced over her shoulder, conscious of the flush in her cheeks. ’Because, personally, I thought it wasdelicious.’ He brought his fingers to his mouth in a chef’s kiss of appreciation. Isabella fled.
Suddenly the next two months and seventeen days felt like they might be a challenge.
Girl Gang WhatsApp group
Wren: Want to come over for afternoon tea?
Isabella: Thanks, but I’m waiting on a plasterer.
Rosie: Shame to miss out on cake, though!
