Page 8 of Forbidden Daddy Mate

We moved into the kitchen. I grabbed the ingredients, muttering to myself as I pulled them out. “Here, you can crack some eggs,” I said.

“You know, I might be more help if you actually shared the recipe,” he pointed out.

I tapped my head. “Can’t. It’s all in here. You could also pit and slice the cherries.”

He shrugged but obliged as I began to prep the rest of the ingredients, humming to myself as I did.

“God, it’s so nice actually getting to use a stand mixer,” I said, watching the batter as it finished coming together.

“You don’t have one?” he asked, genuinely surprised.

My face turned red again, and I looked away. “I had to leave my old one back in California when I ran,” I said. “And good ones are expensive. Currently, with my salary, I can’t afford one of the nice ones. I got a cheap one that broke in a couple of months. It’s cheaper just to mix by hand.”

“I’ve got a good one at my house,” he said. “You’re more than welcome to use it if you ever need to.”

The offer shouldn’t have made me blush, but I could feel the heat growing and spreading across my face. “Thanks,” I muttered.

Sensing my discomfort, Malcolm turned to the batter. Before I could stop him, he stuck his finger in the batter and tasted it.

“This is amazing,” he said, looking down at the bowl, clearly impressed. “You could probably get drunk off it alone.”

“Hey there,” I teased. “You could at least use a spoon.”

He glanced at his finger, then chuckled sheepishly. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m used to baking at home. You’re more than welcome to do the same so we’re even.”

Without thinking, I dipped my finger in the batter, then stuck it in my mouth. The rich chocolate and rum flavor filled my mouth and I let out a soft moan, licking the chocolate off my finger. When I opened my eyes, I realized Malcolm was staring with an expression I couldn’t quite place. Still, something about the intensity made me shift and look away.

“Tastes perfect to me,” I said, hoping he hadn’t noticed the red creeping up my face. “In that case, we should probably get it in the pan.”

Not looking at him, but feeling his intense stare and wanting to pretend I didn’t, I poured the batter into the tin, using a spatula to tip it in. When I’d finished, gooey, delicious batter clung to the sides of the bowl and the spatula. Before I could do anything, however, Malcolm plucked the spatula from my hand.

“Sous-chef rights,” he teased, beginning to lick the batter from the spatula.

I stuck my tongue out at him. “Works for me. I’ve got the whole bowl.” I grabbed a spoon.

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that?” He reached over me, his large arms brushing against me as he used the spatula to swipe the side of the bowl.

“Hey now, that’s cheating!” I twisted away from him, trying to hide the bowl.

It turned into a game, me trying to get as much of the batter as I could before he could steal any more. I laughed as we danced around the kitchen, hiding the bowl from him as he tried to reach in. At one point, I flicked my spoon at him, speckling his face with batter. He growled, retaliating by flicking his own spatula at me.

“Watch it!” I said, giggling.

“You started it,” he countered, flicking the spatula again.

By the time we’d finished, we were grinning and breathless from laughter, the kitchen and both our faces dotted with batter. The anxiety and discomfort that had lingered in the air when we’d realized we would be stuck in the same place with one another had dissipated, replaced with a friendly ease. All of a sudden, spending a few days alone with Malcolm didn’t seem as intimidating.

When the Bundt cake pan was in the oven and we’d polished off the remaining batter, Malcolm went upstairs to take a shower. I stuck around downstairs, cleaning the kitchen, washing the dirty plates, and washing the batter from my face.

It had been thirty minutes, and the air was filled with the delectable smell of baking chocolate when a knock sounded on the door. I paused, frowning. Had Jameson shown up after all?

I almost didn’t answer. Malcolm was still in the shower, and something about a knock in the middle of a snowstorm made me uneasy. But thoughts of Jenn or Klyte or any of the kids actually having arrived and were here to help was enough to make me rush to the door.

But the closer I got to the door, the more certain I was that it wasn’t anyone I knew. Their smell was different, unrecognizable. And there was something off about it, but I couldn’t figure it out.

Still, if someone possibly needed help in a snowstorm, I wasn’t going to turn them away.

I opened the door a crack, then a little more.