Chapter 10 Frankie
Frankie
Cracks in the armor
“As delicious as the soup was, I can’t survive without something sweet too. Let me make dessert.”
He sighs, the kind of long, drawn-out sigh people use when they’re about to give in but want you to think they’re reluctant. But I know from experience that no one can deny fresh-baked goods. Not even hot, grumpy Englishmen. Or my favorite authors. Still not over that. “What do you need?”
“Let’s see what you’ve got.” I head for his pantry before he can protest. Flour, sugar, cocoa powder—it’s sparse but workable. “Perfect. We’ll make something chocolate-based.”
“We?” he echoes, leaning against the counter next to where he’s now standing, his arms crossed over his chest, forearms looking extra veiny, taunting me again. “This is your project. I’ll be the professional taster.”
My thoughts go awry real fast with that line of him tasting anything, namely me, maybe. Bad Frankie.
“Oh no, you’re helping.” I pull a mixing bowl out and place it on the counter in front of him. “I can’t do this alone.”
“I have no interest in baking,” he replies flatly.
“Too bad.” I pop a whisk in his hand and grin at him. “Consider it a life skill.”
“I have plenty of life skills already,” he grumbles, and it makes me borderline laugh. I’m starting to find his grumpiness endearing. Oh Lord, what is happening to me?
“Well, it can’t hurt to have another. Pass the butter, please.”
Once all the ingredients are laid out, I try to focus on memorizing the cookie recipe from my childhood.
As I’m stirring cocoa powder into the batter, a spoonful slips out of my hand, scattering a light dusting of chocolate across his counter. Sam huffs beside me. “Is it essential to make so much mess?”
“It’s creative chaos,” I reply, grabbing a cloth and passing it to him to clear up.
He holds a pinch of flour between his fingers, his smirk deepening. “Creative chaos, hm?”
Before I can respond, he flicks the flour at me, and it dusts my sleeve. My mouth drops open. “You did not just—”
He’s already reaching for more, but I’m faster. I grab a small handful from the bag and toss it at him, landing a perfect hit on his sweater.
Sam looks down at me. “Now you’ve done it,” he says darkly, the sound sliding right through me. My brain scrambles for something witty to fire back, but all I can think about is how his mouth moves when he says it.
He reaches for the flour bag, and any sexy thoughts fly from my brain in favor of preservation. I let out a squeal, darting around the counter as he lunges. “Don’t you dare!”
Powder explodes into the air like a puff of smoke. I duck, but not fast enough—my hair catching a generous coating. “Sam!” I laugh, swiping at my head.
His grin grows wicked as he grabs the can of cocoa I abandoned. “You sure you want to play this game, Frankie?” Okay, and the sexy thoughts are back with the way my name effortlessly rumbles in his chest like that.
“I was born to play this game,” I say, dodging his first toss and grabbing the nearby whisk like a sword.
He lunges, but I’m fast. I shriek, darting behind the kitchen island, but it turns out he’s faster. Another dust-filled handful lands squarely on my back, and I whirl around, laughing so hard my sides ache.
“You’re relentless,” I gasp, leaning against the counter for support.
“You started it,” he says, his own grin breaking through his usual stoicism. I never ever thought Sam would engage in a food fight, but here we are.
“And I’m going to finish it,” I retort, scooping some of the mixture from the bowl, running around to his side smearing it onto his cheek.
Shock coats his face, and I barely have time to move before he reaches for the mixture, readying to dump the whole contents over my head. I hold up my hands in surrender, laughing so hard I can’t breathe.
“Okay, okay, truce,” I manage to say, but my words are muffled by the sound of his deep, rare laugh that makes me want to puff my chest out for coaxing that from him.
He steps closer, and all the air sucks from the room at a rapid rate, the warmth of that laugh radiating from him.
Both of our chests heave in unison as we stand close enough that his breath tickles the stray hairs dusting my face.
His eyes flick from my eyes to my lips, and I can’t help but lick them, watching for a reaction from him.
He doesn’t disappoint. His tongue darts out, wetting his bottom lip.
“Truce?” he asks, the sound rough and deep.
“Yes,” I say breathlessly, still caught in his orbit.
I don’t want to step back; I’m too scared that if I move, this thing between us will scatter like dust in the air, and I like being this close to him.
“Frankie...” he whispers, the feeling of his breath ghosting against my lips spreads goosebumps across my chest. “You’ve got...” he starts as he reaches out, brushing his thumb across my cheek. “Cocoa. Right here.”
I freeze, the touch sending an unexpected current coursing through me. My body trembles as his hand lingers.
“Sam...” I murmur, unsure of what I’m even trying to say.
He leans in, his face so close a couple more inches and I could press my lips to his. My pulse thuds loudly in my neck, the playful chaos of moments ago replaced by something deeper, something alive enough to make my nerves tingle with excitement.
And then, as if the universe is playing a cruel joke, the lights go out.
The hum of the appliances fade, leaving us in the dark with nothing but the sound of the storm raging outside.
“Perfect timing,” he mutters, his voice low.
I laugh softly, the moment broken. Probably for the best.
He steps back, his silhouette just visible. “We should find candles.”
“Right,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Candles. Good idea.”
As he turns to search the cupboards, I press my hand to my chest, trying to calm the rapid beat of my heart.