6. Lucian #2
She sets my phone on the counter, biting her lip.
“You know how I found out my ex was cheating on me? Nate never let me see his phone, ever . But he left his phone on, and a message popped up. It was from Brittany—and that’s when I saw he had months of messages from her.
He’d been seeing her behind my back and I had no idea. ”
She shifts away from me slightly. “So yeah, when you showed up out of nowhere offering to help a complete stranger? I didn’t know if I could trust you.”
“I don’t blame you,” I say. “After what he did, I’m surprised you let me through the front door. ”
“I didn’t. You broke down the door.” Her lips quirk and it’s good to see that I made her smile.
I set the cupcake pan on her drying rack and then turn toward the mixing bowl in the corner. “What if I stayed and helped? I know you’re probably exhausted, and I hate the thought of you working all night alone.”
She nods toward my shirt. “But you’ll get your dress shirt dirty.”
“I have other shirts,” I say, already loosening the buttons. I undo the last button and shrug off the shirt, revealing a fitted white t-shirt underneath. “Problem solved. And we’ll get twice as much done.”
Neesha’s eyes widen slightly before she quickly busies herself with the mixing bowl. “What do you know about baking?”
“Nothing. That’s why you’re going to teach me. Four hands are better than two, right?”
She stares for another second before sighing like she’s seriously regretting this. “I guess.”
Her eyes flick to my left arm and linger on a small tattoo on my forearm—a simple maple leaf. She studies it for half a second before she quickly looks away.
“Maple tree enthusiast?” she asks, pouring some flour into a bowl.
“Canadian roots,” I say with a shrug. “A reminder of home and my grandfather. I’ve been living in Sully’s Beach the last few years, but I grew up in Ontario.” I look over the baking staples on the counter. “Okay, boss. Where do I start?”
She pushes the bowl toward me. “Can you handle mixing up the dry ingredients?”
“Seems easy enough,” I say, but as soon as I start stirring, a cloud of flour explodes across my shirt.
“Gently!” she says. “You’re baking, not demolishing drywall.”
“Got it. Less wrecking ball, more Julia Child. ”
Her lips quirk. “Okay, Julia. See if you can manage the sugar without a disaster crew.”
While we work, I sneak glances at her, noticing the way she bites her lip when she’s concentrating, and how the stray wisps of dark hair curl around her face.
“You know, you get this certain look on your face when you bake,” I note.
She looks up from the frosting she’s stirring. “What kind of look?”
“Focused…maybe even a little lethal?”
She lifts a brow. “Lethal?”
“Like if someone insults your cupcakes, you might throw a whisk at their head.”
“Depends how bad the insult is.”
“See? You’re dangerous.”
She inspects my work and nods. “You’re not bad at this.”
“Well, I have a good teacher.”
She reaches for the cupcake pans and our arms brush, her eyes catching on the maple-leaf tattoo again. It’s only the briefest touch, but her skin is soft and warm against mine, and I find myself wishing I could find an excuse to make it happen again.
She slides the pan into the oven and sets a timer. “This time, I won’t sleep through the alarm, I promise.” Then she holds up a piping bag as she turns back to the frosting. “Want to try?”
I grimace. “Is this where I fail miserably?”
“Probably. But we’ll just practice first on one of the less-than-perfect cupcakes.”
She slides a few misshapen cupcakes toward me and shows me how to pipe a swirl design.
It looks easy enough, but I squeeze it too quickly and immediately create a frosting blob that looks like the work of a preschooler.
She covers her mouth, trying not to laugh. “Okay, wow . That is…something.”
“Tell me it has character,” I say, setting it proudly on the tray .
“It definitely makes a statement—just not the one I want. Maybe a lighter touch?”
“Yeah, I’m not exactly used to being gentle with my hands,” I say. If she knew how I manhandled pucks, bodychecked giants on the ice, and slammed into the boards, she’d understand why I squeeze the frosting bag like I’m strangling it.
“May I?” Her hands hover near mine.
“Sure,” I say, offering her the piping bag. Instead of taking it, she places her hands over mine and guides me. “I want you to feel the pressure of my hands on yours,” she says, avoiding my eyes as she concentrates on the bag.
The pressure of her fingers wrapped around my own is enough to make me lose my focus. “Now just knead the bag…”
When she lets go, I squeeze too hard, and the frosting spurts all over the counter. “I was good until you stopped helping me.”
She laughs. “Stick to wrenches, Lucian. Frosting isn’t your thing.”
“Give me one more shot,” I say, determined to get this right. “I can learn to be gentler…” I pause, letting the words hang between us as my eyes find hers. “With the right guide.”
“One more lesson,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Then you’re on your own.”
She hesitates, then wraps her fingers around mine again. “Think of holding something fragile,” she murmurs, guiding my hands in a careful circle over the cupcake, every point of contact sending heat racing up my arms. “Something you don’t want to break.”
I’m trying to focus on the cupcake, but all I can think about is the way her thumb brushes across my knuckles, how her hair falls forward to hide her face, and how she’s close enough that I could count her eyelashes if I wanted to. Which I absolutely do.
Her breath brushes my arm, and suddenly I’m hyperaware of everything—her hands on mine, the way she smells like vanilla and cinnamon, the fact that we’re standing way too close for me to be thinking straight .
When we finish, she looks up at me, and for one electric moment, I’m not thinking about frosting at all.
“Like this?” I murmur.
She nods, and her eyes drop to my mouth for just a second—so quick I might have imagined it, but it’s enough to make my pulse slam against my throat.
“Perfect,” she whispers, and I’m not sure if she means the frosting or this moment.
The oven timer beeps, and she jerks away so fast she nearly stumbles. “The cupcakes!” she says, fumbling for a hot pad.
I drag a hand through my hair, trying to get my pulse back under control.
This is exactly how you mess things up.
She needs patience and space. What she doesn ’ t need is her neighbor rushing her into another relationship. Earning her trust is the only way to prove I’m different from Nate. That means stepping back and letting her set the pace.
But how am I going to do that when she lives close enough that I can see her kitchen window from mine? Like that won’t be torture.
“Thanks for all your help,” she says. “I can take it from here.” Neesha sets the cupcakes on the counter, keeping a safe distance, which is probably for the best. Plus, there’s the whole thing about me being a hockey player.
I can’t change who I am; I can only change her perception of athletes—a daunting task, but I’m willing to try.
I walk toward the door, Henry following me like he doesn’t want me to go. “Any time you need a baking assistant, you know where to find me.”
She looks down at my t-shirt, now smudged with frosting. “Your shirt looks terrible. I’m sorry.”
“Worth it,” I say. “Because now I know how to make cupcakes.”
“I could wash it. It’s the least I can do after you agreed to help me. ”
I shake my head. “I can’t let you do that.
It’s called neighbors helping neighbors, remember?
” I put my hand on the door handle and test it.
The frame is splintered where I broke through, and it doesn’t close properly anymore.
“Actually, I should fix this tonight before someone else decides to break in.”
“Tonight?” She looks exhausted. “You don’t have to?—”
“I owe you a working door after my dramatic entrance,” I say with a sheepish grin. “Let me grab some wood filler and a new strike plate from my place. It won’t take more than twenty minutes to fix.”
She hesitates. “But I can’t pay you anything.”
“Neighbors helping neighbors, remember?” I step toward the door.
“Besides, I won’t sleep well knowing your door doesn’t lock properly.
” I run my fingers along the splintered doorframe, mentally calculating what it would take to replace the whole thing.
She deserves better than this flimsy door, but tonight I’ll have to settle for making it functional.
“Just give me five minutes to get my tools.”
“Okay… neighbor, ” she says, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
“Well, as your closest neighbor, you should have my number,” I say, picking up her phone from the counter and holding it up so she can unlock it.
She looks at me skeptically, but complies. “Why, though?”
“If something breaks or your smoke alarm goes off again, you’ll know where to find me.”
I enter my contact information and hand the phone back to her. She stares at the screen for a moment before tucking it away.
“I probably won’t need to call,” she says quietly.
“But you have it, just in case,” I say, then grin. “Try not to burn anything down while I’m gone.”