Chapter 4 #2
June shows Emma how to cream butter and sugar, patient and encouraging. I watch her with my daughter, the way she explains why baking soda works differently than baking powder, how Emma hangs on every word. This is June in her element—confident, radiant, exactly where she belongs.
And I'm struck by how easily she fits into our lives, how natural this feels. Domestic, intimate, right. I can see this as our future—Sunday mornings in this kitchen, the three of us covered in flour and laughter.
The want isn't just physical anymore. It's bigger, more dangerous.
I want her in our lives. Permanently.
Emma's lost in her own world now, tongue poking out in concentration as she rolls dough with more enthusiasm than skill.
June hovers nearby, guiding her gently, and I find myself just watching—memorizing the curve of June's smile, the way she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the patience in every word.
I move to help clean up, and June shifts to make room. We fall into an easy rhythm, moving around each other like we've done this a hundred times. She reaches for the flour canister at the same moment I do, and our hands collide.
She laughs, soft and a little breathless. "Sorry."
"My fault," I say, but neither of us pulls away immediately. Her fingers linger against mine, warm and small, and I feel the contact everywhere.
Emma, without even looking up, announces, "You guys are acting weird."
We spring apart like teenagers caught. June busies herself with the mixer, cheeks flushed pink. I clear my throat, search for something—anything—to ground us back in normalcy.
"So how long have you had the bakery?" I ask, leaning against the counter, trying for casual.
June glances at me, surprised, then softens. "Since I was twenty-five. Started it with money I saved working three jobs and a small inheritance from my grandmother." She pauses, measuring her words. "Everyone thought I was crazy. That young, in a small town that already had a bakery..."
"But you made it work."
"I had to." Her voice is quiet, vulnerable. "That bakery is everything I dreamed of. My own space, my own rules, creating things that make people happy." She gets a faraway look in her eyes, and I can see how much it means to her—this life she built from scratch.
I understand that need, the drive to build something stable when everything else felt uncertain. "I get that," I say. "Wanting to build something that's yours, that can't be taken away."
Our eyes meet, and the moment stretches—recognition, understanding, something deeper than attraction. This is connection, the kind that roots itself and grows.
Emma breaks the spell. "Daddy, can you help? This star is stuck."
I move to her side, gently work the cookie cutter free from the dough. When I glance up, June's watching me with this look—soft and tender.
"You're really good with her," she says quietly.
"She's my whole world."
June's expression melts into something that makes my chest ache. "She's lucky to have you."
The words hang between us, heavy with meaning. I want to tell her that we would be lucky to have her, too. That Emma's already halfway in love with her, and I'm not far behind.
But Emma's tugging my sleeve, showing me her lopsided heart-shaped cookie, and the moment passes. June turns back to the oven, checking the temperature, and I'm left with the weight of everything unsaid.
For now, it's enough just to be here—in her kitchen, in her space, building something that feels like the start of everything.
June turns toward the oven, moving quickly to check the timer. I'm closer than either of us realizes—still leaning against the counter, lost in thought. She pivots, doesn't see me, and suddenly she's stumbling back.
Instinct kicks in. My hands shoot out, catching her around the waist before she can fall. I pull her forward, steadying her, and suddenly she's pressed against my chest.
Time stops.
One of my arms is wrapped around her lower back, the other steadying her at her side.
Her hands have landed flat on my chest, fingers splaying wide, and I feel the heat of her palms through the thin fabric of my henley.
She's small in my arms—delicate, soft—and every nerve in my body lights up at the contact.
Her face tilts up, eyes wide with surprise, lips parted. We're inches apart. Close enough that I can see the flecks of darker blue in her eyes, the faint dusting of freckles across her nose. Close enough to feel each shallow breath she takes, the rise and fall of her chest against mine.
She smells heavenly. It makes me want to taste her, to claim her mouth and her body.
My hand spans almost her entire lower back, fingers flexing involuntarily. I feel her shiver, watch her pupils dilate, and every rational thought dissolves.
Her gaze drops to my mouth.
That's when I know—she's thinking the same thing I am. The want between us is tangible, a living thing pulling us closer. My thumb brushes against her lower back, a deliberate caress, and her fingers curl slightly against my chest in response.
I could kiss her right now. Lean down, close the distance, taste the sweetness I've been imagining since the day we moved in. Every part of me is screaming to do it—to give in to the pull that's been building since she handed me those cupcakes.
But Emma's right there. Just feet away, humming to herself, arranging cookie cutters in a line.
June's breathing has quickened, matching mine. Her lips part further, and I watch her tongue dart out to wet them. The movement nearly undoes me.
"Adam," she whispers, and my name on her lips is the sweetest sound I've ever heard.
The oven timer erupts—shrill, insistent, shattering the moment like glass.
"The cookies!" Emma shouts, delighted. "They're done! June, they smell so good!"
Reality crashes back, brutal and immediate.
Neither of us moves at first. We stay frozen, caught in the aftermath of almost. My thumb brushes her back one more time—a promise, a question. Her fingers press into my chest, answering.
Then she steps back, and I force myself to let her go. The loss of contact is physical, aching.
June turns to the oven, hands trembling as she reaches for the mitt. She doesn't look at me, but I see the flush creeping up her neck, the way her chest rises and falls too quickly.
I step back, run a hand through my hair, try to find my breath.
Emma's oblivious, bouncing on her toes. "Can we decorate them? Please?"
"Of course," June says, voice slightly unsteady. "Let them cool first."
Our eyes meet across the kitchen—a look loaded with everything we can't say, everything we almost did.
Later, that look promises. We'll talk later.
***
An hour later, Emma's decorated a dozen cookies. Frosting is smeared across her cheeks, sprinkles embedded in her hair, and she's never looked happier. She holds up a lopsided star covered in electric blue icing. "Look, Daddy! It's perfect!"
"It's a masterpiece," I tell her, and mean it.
June packages the cookies in a white bakery box, tying it with twine. Our hands brush during the exchange, and the contact sends another jolt through me—a reminder of what almost happened, what still hangs unfinished between us.
Emma runs ahead to the door, distracted by the flower pots on the porch. I linger, close enough that June has to tilt her head back to meet my eyes. This close, I can see the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat, the way her breathing hasn't quite steadied.
"Thanks for this," I say, voice low. "She needed it."
June's gaze searches mine. "Just Emma?"
The question is brave, direct—so different from the flustered woman who nearly dropped buttercream all over me. I like this version of June, the one who meets me head-on, who isn't afraid to ask for what she wants.
"No," I admit, letting the word hang between us. "Not just Emma."
Her breath catches, barely audible, but I hear it. I reach out, tucking a strand of flour-dusted hair behind her ear. The touch is tender, deliberate, and I let my fingers linger—tracing the shell of her ear, trailing down to her jaw. Her skin is impossibly soft, warm under my fingertips.
"We should do this again," I say, though we both know I'm not talking about baking.
"Yes," she whispers, and the single word feels like a vow.
Emma calls from the porch. "Daddy, come look! June has a flower pot shaped like a chicken!"
I step back reluctantly, my hand falling away. The loss of contact is immediate. "Soon, June. We'll talk soon."
She nods, lips curving into a smile that's equal parts shy and knowing. "I'd like that."
I collect Emma, the box of cookies, and what's left of my composure. At the bottom of the porch steps, I glance back. June's standing in the doorway, hand touching her face where my fingers grazed her jaw. She looks dazed, hopeful, breathtaking.
"Bye, June!" Emma waves enthusiastically. "Thank you for teaching me!"
"Anytime, sweetheart."
Our eyes meet one last time—a look that holds promises and questions and the weight of everything still to come. The knowledge that everything has changed.
On our way home, Emma chatters about frosting techniques and sprinkle strategies. I make the right noises, but my mind is still in that kitchen—June in my arms, her lips inches from mine, the way she said my name.
I'm in so much trouble.
And I don't even care.