Chapter 12
Recipe for Romance
I squinted at my checklist like it held the secrets of the universe. "Flour, check. Sugar, check. Ability to function like a normal human around attractive men…" I glanced up at the chaos of baking supplies scattered across my café counter. "Jury's still out on that one."
"Please tell me you didn't start the party without me," Matt's voice boomed from the doorway, and honestly, the man should come with a warning label.
Caution: May cause sudden loss of motor functions and ability to form coherent sentences.
He was basically a walking hazard to my nervous system.
Matt filled the doorway like some sort of gorgeous, unapologetic giant in a black T-shirt that was clearly having the workout of its life trying to contain his chest.
"Party?" I gestured at the chaos around me. "This looks like a party to you? I'm pretty sure parties involve less inventory management and more actual fun."
He grinned, stepping inside. "I have been to some pretty boring parties. This has potential."
"Well, you're in luck because I was just about to reorganize my spice rack." I bounced my brows. "Really gets the adrenaline pumping."
"Whoa there, save some excitement for the rest of us." He surveyed the mess with amusement. "So am I too late to help?"
"Nope, you are right on time," I smiled. "I was just going through the shipment that came in this morning, and I'm not sure there's a whole lot to do today since the construction crews are still working."
"That's perfect," he smiled. "I accidentally overbooked myself today." My brows knitted together. "I have a Make-a-Wish this afternoon that I completely forgot about."
My eyes widened. "Oh my… You go, I can handle everything here." I didn't want to be the reason someone didn't get their wish.
"I need your help on something." He looked almost sheepish. "Are you any good at making chocolate chip cookies?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Are you seriously asking a café owner if she can bake cookies? That's like asking a fish if it's good at swimming."
"Fair. But I mean really good. Like, 'make a seven-year-old forget he's in the hospital' good."
"My chocolate chip cookies are award-winning." My heart did this annoying little flip thing. "What's his story?"
"Seven years old, leukemia, loves wrestling and chocolate chip cookies. My team's working on getting him tickets to a show, but I wanted to bring him something special." He looked almost vulnerable. "I feel like store-bought cookies aren't good enough, so I was hoping you could help me make them?"
"Oh my God." My eyes lit up. "Yes, of course." Matt had done so much to help me in the few days since I'd met him. It would be nice to return the favor and bring a smile to a little boy's face.
He seemed to visibly relax as if he thought I might say no. "How many cookies, and what time do you need them by?"
"A couple of dozen, I guess." He checked his phone, brow furrowing. "And I'm meeting him at four, so by two."
I glanced at my watch and felt a flutter of excitement. We had plenty of time to whip up a few dozen chocolate chip cookies before Matt would need to dash home and get ready.
"We should get started then." I tried to sound casual despite the way my heart picked up pace whenever he was around.
"Tell me where you want me," Matt replied, and I swear there was a hint of mischief in his voice that made my cheeks warm.
I busied myself reaching across the counter for my recipe binder, flipping to Grandma's legendary chocolate chip cookie recipe.
"You're on ingredient duty," I announced, shifting sideways so he could see the recipe card.
But before I could move away, Matt stepped closer, his chest brushing against my back.
The air left my lungs in a rush. The cozy kitchen suddenly felt smaller, warmer, filled with the scent of his cologne mingled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, creating an intoxicating mix. Every nerve ending seemed to wake up at once.
"Um," I managed, my voice embarrassingly breathless. I swallowed hard, acutely aware of how his presence seemed to envelope me completely. "You can collect everything from the pantry and fridge."
Being tall enough to read over my shoulder, Matt leaned in closer, his hands coming to rest on either side of me against the stainless countertop. I was effectively surrounded by over six feet of charming, cookie-baking distraction, and my brain chose that exact moment to flat-line.
"And you?" he asked softly, his voice closer to my ear than strictly necessary for cookie-making purposes.
"I'll…" My mouth had gone completely dry. "I'll get the mixing bowls and measuring cups."
Neither of us moved. The recipe card blurred in front of me as I became hyper-aware of everything: the steady rhythm of his breathing, the warmth radiating from his skin, the way the afternoon sunlight streaming through the window seemed to make this moment feel like something out of a movie.
Maybe Grandma's cookies were more magical than I'd ever realized.
The warmth of his breath tickled my ear as he leaned over my shoulder to read the recipe card. "Okay, so we need sugar, flour, butter…"
"Yep," I practically squeaked, my voice jumping an octave. I couldn't think with him so close, and I made really bad decisions when I couldn't think clearly. I shuffled sideways so fast I nearly knocked over the salt shaker. "I'll just grab everything from the closet. Right now. Be right back!"
I power-walked to the back closet like my life depended on it, not daring to look back at Matt's probably very confused face. I pressed my forehead against a shelf and groaned. "Seriously, Brooke? What is wrong with you?"
Matt wasn't just attractive. He was the kind of guy who remembered your coffee order after meeting you once, who listened when you talked, and who somehow made measuring cups seem romantic. I hadn’t known him long, and I could already see myself falling hard for him, and that was terrifying.
My hands shook slightly as I grabbed the mixing bowls from the top shelf. The truth was, I couldn't handle another heartbreak. The ink was barely dry on my divorce papers, and my heart still felt like it was held together with superglue and stubbornness.
Sucking in a deep breath, I grabbed the hand mixer and gave myself a stern talking-to before emerging from my tiny dark sanctuary.
"Everything okay in there?" Matt asked, his eyebrows raised in that adorable concerned way that made my stomach flip. "I was starting to think you'd been kidnapped by baking supplies."
"Just couldn't find the mixer!" I held it up like a trophy, hoping he'd buy my terrible excuse. "But we're all set now."
"Great." He rubbed his hands together. "What's next, Chef Brooke?"
I pulled out my phone and scrolled to my "Feel Good Vibes" playlist. Soon, upbeat pop music filled the kitchen, drowning out the construction noise from the front of the café and giving me something to focus on besides Matt's ridiculously perfect smile.
"So," I said, arranging ingredients with military precision, "have you ever made cookies before, or am I dealing with a complete amateur here?"
Matt laughed, rolling up his sleeves. "My brother Niko and I used to help our mom make chocolate chip cookies when we were kids. And by help, I mean we ate about half the cookie dough before it ever made it to the oven."
"That sounds like the most important part of the cookie-making process, honestly."
"Mom always said we were her best taste-testers." His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, and I had to look away before I did something embarrassing like sigh dreamily.
"Well then, consider yourself promoted to head of quality control," I said, tossing him an apron that read 'Kiss the Cook' in faded letters.
"Is this a job requirement or a suggestion?" He held up the apron, but his eyes never left mine.
Heat crept up my neck. "Both."
The apron hit the table with a soft thud. He took a step closer, then another, until I could smell the mint on his breath. The air shifted, electricity crackling between us.
"You don't have to tell me twice," he said, his voice rough around the edges in a way that made my stomach flip. His hands cupped my face, thumb brushing my cheek, and fingers gripping the back of my neck. Every nerve ending sparked to life where his fingers traced.
His lips brushed mine once, twice, before claiming my mouth completely, soft at first, questioning. Then I melted into him and everything changed. The kiss turned hungry, desperate. My lips parted as his tongue slipped through, tangling with mine.
He kissed me like he'd been thinking about it for hours. Days.
He made me feel wanted. More wanted than I'd ever felt before.
Heat pooled low in my stomach when he nipped my bottom lip.
He pressed closer, backing me against the prep table, his hands dropped to my waist, fingers spanning wide.
In one fluid motion, he lifted me, the cold steel shocking against my thighs through the thin fabric of my leggings as he stepped between my legs, never breaking the kiss.
A crash echoed through the empty café, and reality slammed back into focus. My palm pressed against his chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath my fingers as we both pulled out of the kiss. We stared at each other, both breathing hard, as though sound filled the quiet café.
"Well," I smoothed down my hair and tried to pretend my face wasn't the color of a ripe tomato, "that escalated quickly."
He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, grinning sheepishly. "Pretty sure we just violated about seventeen health codes. Think the health inspector would buy that we were just taste-testing?"
I glanced at the flour now decorating the floor like culinary confetti. "Unless passion and desire are a new flavor profile, I'm thinking no."
He huffed out a laugh as he helped me down.