Chapter 3
Meg
Acouple of hours later, I’m flying around the open-plan kitchen inside Crust & Crumble, readying the space for another all-night baking bonanza.
Exactly what I was trying to avoid this year.
Would’ve avoided it, too. Until that lumbering giant with the dimpled smile and salacious wink ruined it.
My body heats at the memory of it. His model-pretty face with those high, slashing cheekbones marred with shock and concern when he realized what he’d done.
Those melted chocolate puppy-dog eyes looking at me with burning interest. And the way he skated straight for me, leaving behind whatever he was supposed to be doing on the ice while shedding his gear to come help.
I mean… I’m flattered. What woman wouldn’t be, seeing a six-foot-three, sexy as fuck fashionisto fumbling over himself for her? Plus, fuck, that voice. The way it scraped over my skin and shot an arrow of lust straight between my legs.
I just want to know what your award-nominated pie tastes like.
But I do not have time to deal with any of that.
With him. Or hell, any possible entanglements.
Even it might be really nice to get tangled up in that.
Ugh. No. Focus, Meg.
I barely had time to rinse the filling from my hair and swap out my stained shirt for a Crust & Crumble branded t-shirt I knotted at my back.
After I’d forked over the half-order of pies I owed the Scorpions—the ones that had been safely waiting in my car, away from any more puck-tastrophes—I doubled back to the bakery to grab the remaining half from my stash.
They were meant for tomorrow’s pre-order pie pickups, and when I handed them over, Sierra and Willow tried telling me they’d make do with the half-order. But I don’t like letting anyone down. Especially not at Thanksgiving.
I said I was giving the Scorpions fifty pies, so fifty pies is what they’ve got.
Now, I’ve got to replace the ones I need to meet tomorrow’s pre-orders. Two dozen more pumpkin pies coming right up!
It might take all night, but that can’t be helped.
I groan. Maybe this time next year, I’ll be able to afford to hire an apprentice who can actually help me bake, not just work the front counter after school so I can get an actual break.
And nabbing the Beach’s Best Taste award might just get me there. So, fuck my aching back and feet, it’s time to bake. I crank up the tunes, turn on the ovens, and mentally map out my stations when the little bell above my bakery door chimes. Shit, I meant to lock that.
“We’re closed. Read the sign.” I don’t bother looking because I’m mid-mise en place.
But then, that accent again.
“Hello, Meg. I come in peace.”
My head jerks up to see Alexei enter my sacred space holding a mix of purple and yellow blooms that make my heart stutter, and a tray of jumbo-sized to-go coffees.
He’s breathtakingly sexy in his casual ENFORCE shirt under a black-and-orange flannel long-sleeve shirt.
The cuffs are rolled up his thick forearms, and I swallow hard staring at them.
He actually came. With fucking flowers. What the actual fuck?
A weird, hard lump lodges in my throat, and I fight to clear it.
I can’t remember the last time anyone showed up for me like this.
I’m too adept at deflecting passes, and most men in my experience never bothered to try again after getting shot down.
Probably because I’m intimidating. Or so I’ve been told.
“Ballsy of you to show up here, Aslanov. Why have you come?”
“I told you, I’m making it right. Willow said you’d be working, and Sierra said it’d take all night. I didn’t want you to do it alone. I made the mess, so I’ll help clean it up. Put me to work, my chef.”
Of all the names he could’ve called me, this one slides under my skin and makes heat spiral south. It’s… familiar. Casually claiming. And I think I hate it.
Maybe.
But my pulse picks up, my body heating up like the oven ratcheted on high. Between my legs, there’s a dull, aching throb I fight to control.
“It’s just ‘chef.’ Like a title. Yes, Chef. Sure thing, Coach. That kind of thing.”
Oh, my God. Stop rambling. I spin away to find something to hold the flowers.
He slides the coffee across the countertop and glances around the shop. Something about having him here, in my space, feels incredibly intimate.
I hold my breath as he looks over the tiny white two-top tables, Scandi-inspired wooden seating, and exposed brickwork.
My countertop has wooden crates used for display, and his eyes travel over all of it, assessing while he crosses the room in four steps and leans against the wall while I retrieve an empty storage bucket and shove it under the sink.
“It’s small, your bakery.”
“Yeah, well. When you stuff a big boy into a small space, everything feels tight.” My face grows hot as the words play back in my head, and I yank the faucet on full blast. I plunge my hands in, hoping the chill will have the same effect as jumping into a cold shower.
“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
He comes around the counter, all sweet smiles and that damn dimple digging into his right cheek.
“You sure?” he asks, coming close.
Too close.
He leans around me to shut off the water and pluck the bucket out of the basin, and I get a full frontal assault of his scent—spicy, sweet, masculine.
End. Me. Now.
He slides the bucket over the countertop and holds the flowers out to me, waiting with those earnest eyes and quirked-up lips.
“It’s okay if you did. I won’t hold it against you. Not unless you wanted me to.”
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Trouble,” I announce again, in a voice that’s too high and too shrill.
I clear my throat, take the flowers, and nearly plunge my face into the blooms to rid myself of his scent. The soft fragrance of the irises surrounds me, and I glance up at him. “Thanks for these. Apology accepted.”
“Great. Now, where do you want me?”
“I didn’t say I wanted your help.”
He cuts me some side-eye and presents me with the coffee he brought. “And I said you’re getting it anyway. Let’s skip over this part, huh? Sierra said you’d be stubborn about it.”
“Do you know anything about baking pies?” I ask, dubious, as I set the flowers to one side and take a sip of the coffee—gingerbread latte, my favorite at this time of year.
How much did he learn about me from Sierra and Willow?
I might need to have a little chat with my well-meaning friends when this night is over.
“Only what my babushka taught me. But I learn fast, and I work hard. So, try me, Meg.”
Part of me wants to melt at the sound of my name on his tongue, but another part of me wars with giving up control and letting anyone in.
“Really, Alexei. I’m used to doing things on my own. I’m… particular. Picky. Demanding.”
“I can tell.” He smiles, and I feel it like a warm caress. “I like it.”
And just like that, my stomach knots itself up as my resistance crumbles around me. He doesn’t seem to notice all the devastation he’s causing as he washes his hands and wraps an apron around his waist.
“Anyway, I promise to do exactly what you say. So, what can it hurt to have an extra pair of hands?”
I stare at them—those big, strong, capable hands of his could do some truly filthy things to my body, and to my heart. But there’s no time for that, and accepting his offer of help might mean I actually get to sleep sometime before the sun rises.
Sighing, I glance up. “If those hands fuck up any more pies, you’re dead. You got me, Alexei?”
He holds his hands up, palms out, and flashes me that devastating dimple again. “Loud and clear, my chef.”