Neighbors With Benefits

9 - Jazz

9

Jazz

I thought about what Cat had said when I was at Sunday dinner with the guys. We were at my place this week, and Aiden was helping me make soup.

“I need the celery, carrots, and onions chopped up,” I instructed while fishing out all the spice jars from my cabinet.

Aiden gave a little salute. “Yes, chef.”

When we all first started hanging out, Aiden wore wrinkled sweatpants. But lately he’d swapped them for a pair of Vuori sweatpants, which were more expensive and tighter-fitting. His ass looked amazing in them, like they were tailored to show off his cute little butt.

And they were so tight that every now and then, when he turned a certain way, I could see the outline of his dick.

I tried not to stare, but it was hard—pun intended—not to. He had to know I could see the ridge of the tip pressing against the fabric, right? Was that on purpose? An extremely passive form of flirting, like when I wore a low-cut top to show off my cleavage?

That was cruel. It was a huge distraction while I was trying to focus on stirring a roux on the stove to mix into the soup.

But I wasn’t innocent. I was wearing my nicest pajama pants too, and a cute top that I wouldn’t have put on if I was just hanging out by myself. I had also started doing my hair and makeup before meeting them. Not enough for them to know I had put in the work, but enough that they would notice how good I looked.

Or so I hoped.

Cat was right: I cared what they thought. They were good-looking guys, and I wanted them to like me. Part of that meant wanting them to think I was attractive. That was just normal vanity, I told myself. Not because I wanted anything to happen.

“I like this,” Bash said, leaning on the kitchen island and sipping his beer. “You guys do all the cooking, and I do all the eating.”

“You bring the alcohol,” I pointed out. “That’s the most important job.”

“Where do you want the chopped veggies?” Aiden asked.

“Dump them right in the pot.”

He moved alongside me, his elbow brushing my arm in passing. I stood my ground in front of the other burner, enjoying the way he felt in my personal space. The hair on my arms and neck stiffened as he scraped the chopped veggies into the pot with the back of his knife.

“What next?” he asked, wiping his hands on his apron.

“Shred the chicken, then add it back to the pot.”

“Yes, chef.”

I liked the way he said that. There was a hint of flirtiness in his tone. Like he was obeying a sexy command.

We ate the soup with store-bought rolls, then Bash excused himself to watch the Phillies game back at their place.

“I’m going to get another beer,” I said. “Want one? Or are you going to go watch the game, too?”

He smirked at me. “I’ll watch it later. After I’ve defeated you in a few rounds of Bananagrams.”

“Then you definitely need this,” I said, slamming a beer down in front of him. “Maybe it will slow you down.”

With the ominous tone of a super villain, Aiden replied, “Beer only enhances my powers.”

We moved the game to the living room floor and started playing. I got lucky and won the first game in less than a minute. Even though I lost the next three games in a row, that first game and his reaction made it all worth it.

“Two more,” I demanded. “I can’t let you leave just yet.”

“If you want to keep losing,” Aiden replied, “then I’ll stick around and oblige you.”

“I wish I had snacks,” I said, grabbing two more beers from the fridge. “I should have bought dessert for tonight.”

“We could bake our own,” he suggested. “What about cookies?”

“I don’t have any cookie dough.”

Aiden hopped up from the table. “You have all the ingredients to make them from scratch.” He began opening cabinets. “Sugar, flour, sea salt. Eggs. Do you have vanilla extract?”

“Right above you.” I reached past him, brushing against his chest, to retrieve the little black bottle.

“Perfect. We have everything we need for sugar cookies.”

I wasn’t a huge fan of sugar cookies—I preferred desserts that were full of chocolate. But I didn’t want to dampen his enthusiasm, so I said, “Sugar cookies are my favorite!”

“These would be best if the butter was softened at room temperature,” Aiden explained, “but I can make this work.”

“Teach me, oh master of the kitchen,” I said.

“Wipe down that counter. That’s where we’ll make the cookies.”

“Yes, chef,” I said dutifully.

Aiden washed his hands, then quickly got to work mixing everything in a bowl. “Most of this is simple: you mix the dry and wet ingredients separately, then combine them. But I have a secret trick that makes my sugar cookies the best.”

“Define the best.”

“Crispy on the outside, soft on the inside. Duh.”

I nodded while watching him mix the ingredients. “I’m listening.”

“Once the dough is made, you separate them into individual dough balls,” he explained.

“Okay,” I said, pulling off bits of the finished dough and rolling them into balls. Aiden pinched some flour and spread it around the counter so the dough wouldn’t stick while I rolled it out.

“Now’s the time for my secret,” he revealed. “Before you put them on the baking pan, you roll them in granulated sugar.” He dumped the sugar onto a plate and spread it out with his hand.

“Why not add the sugar to the outside after they’re baked?” I asked.

“Rookie mistake,” Aiden said. “The sugar isn’t just for flavor. It also helps draw moisture out of the surface of the cookies while they bake. That’s what gives the cookies that cracked, crispy look.”

“Ahh. How much sugar do I roll on?”

“Enough to coat the outside. No, a little more than that.” He placed his hands over mine and helped me mold the next ball, then rolled the ball in the granulated sugar. I sucked in my breath at his touch; once again the hairs on my arms were stiff. It felt like electricity was surging from his hands into mine.

“Good,” he murmured, his lips close to my ear. “That’s perfect.”

“Yeah?” I purred back at him. Was this really happening?

“Mmm hmm,” he breathed.

His hands were covering mine, and we were shoulder-to-shoulder next to the counter. Aiden was breathing faster, though his motions were still slow and smooth as we rolled the dough in the sugar longer than needed. But he didn’t remove his touch, and I definitely didn’t want him to.

“Jazz?” he asked softly.

I turned to look at him. “Aiden?”

His gaze bore into mine, a smear of flour on his cheek beneath his dark eyes. And in that brief moment, there in the kitchen, I knew what he was thinking.

Because I was thinking the same thing.

“I want…” he said.

“What?” I asked softly. “What do you want?”

I held my breath as he readied his response:

“This.”

And he showed me.