Page 15 of A Little Twist
Don’t blush. Don’t blush. Don’t blush.His low voice is so certain, like it’s an indisputable fact, and I wish it didn’t completely throw me off balance.
I clear my throat and answer with a soft, “Thank you,” focusing on the bowl in front of me and not the heat of his body so close to mine.
“You’ve done a lot of work these last few weeks. I’m eager to see it all come together tomorrow. I lined up a photographer to take some marketing photos…” He glances from what I’m mixing to the waiting pans behind me. “Cinnamon roll cake?”
“Close. It’s my famous snickerdoodle cake.” I take a small spoon and dip it into the filling I’ve just finished and hold it out for him to taste.
Hazel eyes meet mine as he places his full lips on the spoon, and my stomach dives. We’ve drifted past each other so long, like two stars in space, and now with Britt’s wedding, we’ve been pushed closer together. Our attraction is elemental, like the pull of gravity…
And I’m acting dickmatized. Alex Stone has never shown any interest in me—other than for a free peep show. I’m not throwing myself at him again. I have some pride, after all.
His eyebrows rise, and he blinks a few times. “That’s fucking delicious.”
Not gonna lie. My pride loves hearing that. “Wait til I put it in the cake.”
“This isyourrecipe? As in, you made it up?”
“It’s not that hard.” I shrug. “I’d been baking for a while, so I was used to how the flavors combined and the behavior of the ingredients. I just started experimenting with tastes I loved or other people loved. This one’s based on a cinnamon sugar Pop-Tart. Britt loved those when we were in high school, and after I made it, it was her favorite cake.”
“You’re a cake artist.”
“More like I know what works together, and I’m not afraid to try new things.” I glance up at him, thinking we have something in common. “It’s like your bourbon. It’s your grandfather’s recipe, but I’m sure you take a few liberties to make it yours.”
“Not with the single barrel. With the special reserve, I take liberties. But the original is all Thomas Woolsen.”
“Was that his name? Thomas Woolsen?” Leaning my hip against the counter, I’m so curious. I don’t know anything about the old man whose death brought us together all those years ago.
“Yeah, I’m named for him.”
“Alexander Thomas Stone.” I say the words slowly, like I’m tasting them for the first time, and when I look up, he’s studying my lips like he wants to taste me.
My stomach tightens, and my tongue slips out to wet my bottom lip.
He flinches before darting to meet my gaze again. “What will you do now?”
I blink, and it takes me a second to realize he means with the cinnamon filling.
“Oh,” I breathe a laugh and snap out of my daydream, taking the bowl to where the pans of batter are waiting. “I add small spoonfuls to each of these.”
He watches as I add the little dollops throughout the layers then spread them with a knife. As soon as I finish, he helps me slide the six pans into the waiting, industrial-sized double oven.
Then he picks up the bowl that held the cinnamon mixture and slides his finger over the side, taking another taste. “I’m already addicted.”
“Just wait til you get a piece of the cake. That filling makes a sticky, chewy ribbon of cinnamon sugar in every bite.”
“I’m with Britt. I think your baking era might be my favorite if this is what comes of it.”
“If I had a kitchen this size with this much storage, it’s possible baking might not be such a bad way to spend my time.” Carrying the dirty pans to the sink, I switch on the hot water and grab the dish soap. “The problem is once you start doing something you love for money, the love fades, and it turns into just another job.”
Alex grabs a towel and takes the clean pan from me to dry. We’re standing side by side in front of the sink, and his warmth, his interest is all new and attractive to me. He’s so easy to talk to, and it’s cool to discover we have things in common.
After three years of high school in which we never interacted, he went away to the naval academy, then into the military.
He’s been back five years. What have I been doing for five years? Wasting half of them on Drake Redford, the conceited dick.
“Except babies.” His voice is thoughtful.
“What?”