Page 30 of Kiss Away Your Pain (Wounded Hearts 2)

“Nah, I’m going to let these soak,” I say, grabbing ice stones from the freezer. Setting the stones into two glass tumblers, I grab my whiskey decanter and fill the glasses with about two ounces each.

“What are those squares you put in there?”

“Trade secret.” I give her a shrewd smile. “They make the whiskey cold without watering it down like regular ice cubes. That way, no matter how long it takes you to sip it, it still tastes the way it should by the end.”

“Fancy. I like it.”

“If it’s too strong for you, let me know and I’ll put ice in it.” I bring over the glasses and hand one to her. “Thank you.” I pause, grateful. “For earlier. I don’t talk about that stuff.”

“Any time,” she says with a softness that matches her smile. “Cheers.” She holds up her glass for me to clink.

“Cheers.” I clink her glass and take a sip.

Placing the glass to her full lips, she sips hers and swallows. “Mmm, it’s a little spicy with like, caramel?” Her eyes shift back and forth as she tries to confirm her guess.

“Yup, it can taste like caramel.”

“I don’t usually have it straight. It’s nice.”

“Okay, are you ready to make some biscuits?”

“Let’s do it,” she says, then looks down at her top.

“I’ve got you.” I go to my bedroom and grab a T-shirt. “Here, put this on. I don’t have aprons. This’ll protect your top.”

“Thank you.” She puts on my T-shirt, lifting her long pink hair out of the collar.

She’s still so sexy, even in my big shirt. “I like the way you look in my clothes.”

Her cheeks lift in appreciation of my compliment. “What do I do?”

“We’re going to start with the biscuits,” I say, getting the ingredients and tools we need. “When they’re baking, we’ll make the whipped cream.” I put everything on the island. “While I measure out the dry ingredients, you can cut the butter into chunks. You’ll break them into smaller pieces with the pastry cutter when everything’s in the bowl.”

Putting the butter on the cutting board, she holds the stick delicately between her thumb and pointer finger and starts cutting it into chunks. Her fingers slip off. “Ooo, slippery little sucker.”

“Don’t be afraid to touch it. We might get messy. Hold it down with your hand. I don’t want you cutting yourself.”

She wraps her hand around the stick and keeps cutting. I have all the dry ingredients in the bowl by the time she’s done.

“Now, scrape your butter into here and you can go at it a little more with this to break the chunks into even smaller pieces.” I put the pastry tool next to the bowl.

She washes her hands and starts pushing the tool into the chunks of butter. “Like this? Am I doing it right?” While her usual badass self is sexy, in contrast, her baking insecurity is adorable.

“Yup, perfect. There’s no right or wrong way. Keep going until the pieces are a little smaller.”

Once it looks right, I add in the buttermilk and hand her a spatula. “Now stir it. It’ll become more doughy soon.”

She stirs and stirs.

I toss some flour onto the island top. “Scoop it out onto here.”

She scoops out the crumbled mixture.

“Hold out your hands.”

She does and I dust them with flour.

“Here’s where it gets fun,” I say.

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