Page 6 of Rival Hearts
“Like the nerdy type, do you?” I tease, although a part of me catalogs how very not nerdy I am. I don't wear the signature glasses. I'm not particularly savvy on a scientific subject—none of the stereotypical nerd qualities. Truthfully, I lean more towards hipster lumberjack with plaid flannels and jeans that fit properly, along with the occasional beanie.
“Competency, intelligence. Those are my kryptonite,” Sierra says with a smirk as if I don't embody those things.
“I'm extremely competent at making the finest cup of coffee you'll ever drink. It takes a certain intelligence to create the perfect roast.”
“Does it?” A smile hides in the corners of her mouth. My goal is to make her laugh because she doesn't do that enough around me.
“Come on, tell me you've had a better caramel double shot than the one I made for you yesterday.”
“Fine, you know how to make a cup of coffee. But the way to a girl's heart isn't through her stomach, contrary to her male counterpart.”
“Who's talking about hearts, sweetcakes?” Twin spots of red appear on her cheeks. She pushes a little harder on the rolling pin until the dough beneath spreads too thin and tears from the extra force.
“Damn it,” she mutters.
Good to know I affect her as much as she does me.
“If the way to a girl's heart isn't through her stomach, then what is the way?” I ask, curious about her answer. I've known Sierra for a couple of years now, and I've never seen her date. A good thing, too, because it'd probably send me into an early heart attack from all the shock and jealousy. Okay, maybe it would give me minor heart palpitations. Because I swear I'm getting better with this obsession I have for her.
“Through her mind, duh. Women want to be wooed,” she states matter-of-factly. “There’s also the fact that the brain is actually your biggest sex organ—” Sierra pauses as if she can't believe she said that out loud. “Um… forget I just… uh… What are you making?” She fumbles over her words before completely dropping the topic.
“Smooth…” I laugh but allow the subject to change. We definitely shouldn’t talk about sex. Not when just being near Sierra has my cock semi-hard and eager to fly into full mast. “An apple tart. I'm going for a nostalgic feel, especially since we have the apple orchard at the edge of town. You?”
“Cinnamon bacon scones. It's a play on heart sparks with the spice.”
“Nice.” Silence reigns supreme again, until we transport our goods to the ovens.
Sierra sets the timer, then leans back against the messy counter with a sigh. “This is going to be a nightmare to clean up.” The back of her hand swipes across her forehead as her weary gaze studies the work to be done. Her picture-perfect set-up now lies in ruins with half-empty ramekins and flecks of sugar and flour decorating the counter.
“Cleaning will be easier with the two of us, though.”
I reach for a folded rag when powdered sugar catches my eye. Fluffy. White. Openly available. An idea tickles my brain at the sight, and I can't resist my next move. Casually pinching the sugar between my fingertips, I flick it at Sierra, where it lands on her chest.
There’s a pause.
Then an adorable growl.
“What was that?”
“What?” I ask innocently, fingers walking across the table in search of more ammunition.
“We are not having a food fight in my kitchen.”
I flick brown sugar at her this time. “Who said we're fighting?”
“Seriously?” She brushes at the sprinkles of white and brown on her apron, but the sugar just smears. “And you called me a menace.” Reaching forward, she grabs a handful of blue sprinkles and tosses them at my face. I duck but feel the little pellets hit my ear and the top of my head.
That’s my girl.
“Oh, it's on now!” Tucking a bag of flour against my chest, I dodge a second onslaught of sprinkles before sending flares of flour cascading over Sierra’s head.
Sprinkles, nuts, flour, sugar. It all flies through the air to coat every square inch of our bodies, until both of us are heaving with laughter, slumped on the floor in a truce.
“Well, if it wasn't a nightmare to clean before, now it definitely is.” Sierra giggles, her chest heaving from exertion, and I wish the vee of her shirt dipped a little lower, so I could follow the map of baking products decorating her cleavage.
“Nightmare on Treat Street,” I bite out—trying to keep things light and professional rather than turning the conversation back to sex and learning exactly how sweet Sierra tastes.
“Oh my gosh, you did not just say that.” She lightly punches my shoulder, and it occurs to me that for someone who purportedly doesn’t like me, Sierra touches me an awful lot. Sure, they’re mostly annoyed slaps or shoves, but like a kindergartner who can’t voice their crush, it’s the equivalent of me pulling on her hair to get her attention.