Page 52 of Chess Not Checkers
He gives me a pointed look. “You are the last person I’d want to see me in this.”
I laugh. “If you get the flour and egg mixture on your clothes, you’re going to regret it. Not to mention tomato sauce on your nice white shirt.”
I pick the apron up and get on my tiptoes to loop it over his head. He lets me, though the look he’s wearing shows he doesn’t like it.
“Don’t pout.” I giggle and wrap my arms around his middle to tie it in the back.
When I finish, I realize how close we are, and I freeze. Our eyes meet. My breath catches in my throat. His gaze traces my face, and I feel it as though it were a brush of his fingertips. The heat from his body so close to mine clouds my senses. That must be why I think I see his deep blue eyes linger on my lips for a second too long before dragging back up to meet my gaze.
“All set,” I whisper, and step back, keeping my eyes down.
“Thanks,” he murmurs.
After a long pause, I finally dare to lift my gaze. The sight before me makes me cackle. The apron barely covers Shepherd’s broad chest and torso. All the polka dots and ruffles juxtapose his muscular arms and unamused scowl.
“This is the best thing I’ve ever seen,” I breathe out, wheezing in between bursts of laughter.
“I regret coming over here,” he grouses, but the corner of his mouth twitches like he wants to smile.
“No, you don’t.” I grin big.
He sighs. “You’re right, I don’t. Now, can we get started on this lesson? The faster we’re done, the sooner I can take this off.”
I giggle again. “I think you should wear it during our match. Wouldn’t want to get pasta sauce on your shirt while eating.”
“I’d rather go shirtless,” he grumbles as he stalks over to the kitchen island.
The image of him playing chessshirtlesswhile eating my food makes my knees weak.
“I think we should keep all of our clothes on,” I say, my voice a pitch too high.
He smirks. “Are you sure about that?”
“Very,” I squeak.
His low chuckle sends warmth pooling in my already tingling abdomen.
“Let’s get started on the lesson, hmm?” I breathe.
“Ready when you are, Chef.”
I heave a sigh, not bothering to correct him again. “First, we need two cups of flour, spooned and leveled.”
He looks at me like he has no idea what I mean. “In English,” he says, and I laugh.
“It’s a method of ensuring proper measurement of the ingredient. I’ll demonstrate, then you can try it.”
I open the acrylic container I store my flour in, then grab the measuring cup and a large spoon. I scoop the flour into the cup with the spoon, then use the handle to level off the top. Once done, I gently pour it onto the countertop to make a small pile.
“Oh, okay, I can do that,” he says, and I slide the materials over to him so he can give it a go. He carefully spoons the flour in, then levels it off.
“Perfect, now just pour it on top of mine—”
He dumps it a few feet above the counter. Flour puffs into the air and onto both of our faces.
“Gently.” I finish my sentence.
“My bad,” he says, sounding like he’s suppressing laughter.
