Chapter Nine
SHAY
ICE ON HIS crotch.
Ice on my forehead.
Sitting side by side while the rest of the class mixes cocktails and the sweet, buttery smell of cinnamon baking rolls fills the air.
That’s when he tells me the suitcase he brought isn’t mine. Which means all those rushing vibrators don’t belong to me, and I completely embraced myself for nothing.
“It could happen to anyone.” He drops his ice pack into the ceramic bowl on the dining room table.
Ice clinks and water spills over the rim, beading across the wood.
He shifts, and his thigh brushes mine.
I pretend it didn’t happen. We’ve already had enough accidental intimacy for one afternoon.
I tilt my head at him, and the pain beneath the ice is muted.
“Of course it could.” Sarcasm drips from my voice. “When doesn’t a woman crash a baking event and take credit for a suitcase full of vibrators?”
He laughs, deep and warm right in my ear, making the situation feel smaller.
Lighter.
Less awkward.
My lips twitch before I can stop them.
“That’s it.” His arm nudges mine. “It’s funny.”
“It’s humiliating.”
He shakes his head. “I partner with brands like that all the time. Toys sell well with my content.”
His content. Right. The whole naked-baker, make-women-drool-on-their-phones thing. An internet thirst trap with a whisk.
Apparently, that’s a career now.
Who am I to judge? It’s not like I’ve got anything figured out. I have no career. No idea what kind of career I want. Just a rough route scribbled in my head, a broken-down car, and a concussion earned while nearly dry-humping a stranger in public.
My life is a mess.
He turns fully toward me. “Hold still.”
Before I can argue, his fingers slide under mine and lift the ice away from my forehead.
Cool air kisses skin that instantly throbs in protest.
He leans in, close enough that I can smell cinnamon and sugar on his breath.
His thumb presses gently, testing.
“And the ladies were expecting them,” he says, distracted by my wound. “So it’s not like they’re shy about vibrators.”
I wince. Partly from the pressure, but mainly from the word coming out of his mouth so casually.
Talking about dildos and vibrators with him feels like crossing some invisible line I’m not prepared for.
He catches my reaction immediately. “What?”
His fingers pause. Then he eases the ice back into my hand and carefully presses it against my skin. His hand covers mine, holding it there.
“For someone who traveled with a whole bag of vibrators,” he says lightly. “You’re awfully upright about them.”
“I am not uptight.” I fight the pull to lean into him.
His look says he doesn’t believe me for a second.
“I can’t be,” I add too fast. “One of my friends designs and sells them.”
“The friend on the phone?”
“Yes. Tess.” I adjust the ice pack; his hand slides with mine.
“So it’d be weird if you were uptight or uncomfortable with vibrators.” His mouth quirks.
“Exactly.” Heat coils low in my stomach.
His saying the word does that.
My fingers tighten around the ice pack, the cold doing nothing to calm the warmth spreading elsewhere.
“Can you say it?”
“Say what?” But I already know.
“Vibrator.”
“I’m a grown woman, of course I can say it.”
The corner of his mouth curves higher. “Go ahead.”
I press my lips together, trying to figure him out, but I’m not sure what I’m looking for.
I lean back until his arm drops away from my head. “You know what, you’re making it weird.”
He leans back, arms folded, a smirk tugging at his lips. I’m not the one with a suitcase full of vibrators. But hey—crush it, seriously. You got this.”
I snort. “You have a dozen bags with—”
“Vibrators.”
I frown. “Yes, and they’re in your suitcase.”
I slide the ice off my forehead and clutch it on my lap.
“For gifts.” He stays folded in on himself, arms crossed, watching me.
“And Tess is the reason I have a whole bag in my suitcase.”
“I’m not seeing the connection.”
“She packed them.”
“For you.”
“Yes. For my opinion—”
His smirk cuts me short.
“Not like that.” I slap his arm.
He laughs. “There’s no judgment here. This is a safe space.”
“She packed them without telling me.”
“Then how did you know I had them?”
“She was showing off her new ones and then said she left some in my suitcase and wanted me to acknowledge them. When I opened it”—I gesture between us—“lo and behold, they weren’t there.”
“So that sent you into my cooking class.”
“Yes, which I see now was a mistake.”
“It wasn’t a mistake.” He leans further back in his chair, smug. “It was fate.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re as bad as the hostesses.”
He laughs.
“I’m a videographer. I shoot and edit Tess’s social media content. Including”—I smile—“vibrators.”
He licks his teeth, grinning. “I didn’t expect that from you.” His lips twitch to one side. “But I didn’t expect you to crash my baking lesson either.”
“That wasn’t in my plan for the day.”
“But, full disclosure.” He sits up and loops his finger under my chin, tilting my head away to check my lump.
I want to tell him it’s fine, but I’m enjoying his fingers on me.
“When you arrived, I knew why you were there.”
“And pausing the class and pulling me aside to assure me my vibrators”—I say it full of conviction this time—“we’re not in your suitcase, never crossed your mind?”
“It did.”
“But you decided to say nothing?”
“Seems that way.”
I stare at him. “You are a terrible person.”
“Counterpoint.” His eyebrows draw together. “I am an excellent person who devised a meet-cute.”
“A meet-cute?”
“Yes.” His thumb traces the curve of my temple, careful not to press. “A meet-cute is between two people—”
“I know what a meet-cute is.”
“Then you can appreciate it.”
“Why? Why would you do that?”
His eyes flick to mine and grow serious. “I wanted you to stay.”
The room shrinks while he studies my reaction. And I’m more conscious of his nearness than the dull ache in my head.
And I’m not sure how I want to react.
That’s a lie.
I want to tell him I’m glad I stayed, but the words don’t find their way out.
“Are you regretting that decision now?”
His fingers pause, warm against my scalp, but his eyes don’t leave mine. “This isn’t exactly how I thought the evening would go,” he finally says.
“Which part? Sitting on the sidelines with an ice pack on your”—I gesture downward vaguely—“heritage?”
He snorts, then winces. “Don’t make me laugh. You assaulted me with a vibrator.”
I laugh until I almost can’t breathe. “I did not. It attacked us.”
“You dropped it on my face.”
I lose it completely.
Laughter comes out of me so loud and unflattering and impossible to rein in.
“You think that’s funny?” He doesn’t look a pinch of insulted.
“Yes.” The single word is a cackle, and I’m pretty sure any flirting up to the point is over after this breakdown. “And completely your fault.”
“My fault?” He presses his hand against his chest, and I miss it immediately. “You’re the one who crashed into me.”
“Pft. I brushed past you. You’re a big guy who can handle a little brush.”
He snorts. “A little brush?”
I sit back. “Are you saying I’m strong enough to knock you over?”
He grins. “There was a rolling pin.”
My eyes flicker to his crotch. I don’t mean for them to. I don’t think I’ll ever hear the word rolling pin again and not think of his crotch.
Thanks, Jaclyn.
“It’s alright.” My eyes snap up to meet his amused smirk. “All my bits and pieces. They’re all fine and in good working condition.”
“I wasn’t asking.”
He leans closer to me. “I meant because you kneed me in the groin and I saw stars.”
I did do that.
Right.
Yeah.
“I’m glad. Good. Yes.” I sit straighter. “I’m glad you’re not more seriously hurt.”
“It seems the rolling pin got you.”
My eyes fall to his lap again.
Oh, good lord, what is wrong with me?
I snap them back up just as his finger touches the side of my head. “But it looks like you’re going to be fine too.”
“I am.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
He smiles.
The ice has melted into a damp chill in my palm. “I’m going to go put this in the sink.”
He grabs the bowl and my arm, stopping me. “I got it.”
Our fingers meet briefly when he takes it. Water trails down my wrist and along the inside of my arm.
His thumb follows the line along my skin. The motion is unhurried. He wipes the water away, then brings his thumb to his mouth.
I can’t tear my eyes away as his tongue comes out and licks the water away.
“Delicious.”
My chest tightens.
“I don’t invite people up to help me bake. Especially not women.”
“Never?” The word barely makes it past my lips—not when I can’t tear my eyes from his lips.
“Never.”
What does this mean?
What is he even saying?
“But you invited me.” It’s more a question than an obvious observation.
“Yes.” He gives me no more when I want so much more.
“Why?”
His eyes dart to my lips, and every part of me he’s touched warms. “You asked good questions.”
“I did not.”
“You didn’t look like you knew what you were doing.”
“I didn’t, but isn’t that the point of taking a lesson? To be taught?”
“And I taught you.”
I smile. “Yeah, well, I never say yes to random invitations to bake.”
“Never?” My smile widens as he says my words back to me.
“Never. Especially from men who don’t wear shirts.”
“I was wearing an apron.”
“Hardly.”
“Safety first.”
I snort, then we’re quiet again.
“But you said yes to me.” Is he moving closer?
“I did.”
“Why?”
My eyes dart to his lips. “You looked like you knew what you were doing.”
“I’m glad you accepted my invitation.”
“I accepted it because of the suitcase.”
“I know.” The desire in his eyes tells me he doesn’t believe it.
And he shouldn’t. I might’ve come to the lesson for the suitcase, but I stayed for him.
I clear my throat. “But maybe this was a one-time thing.”
He nods. “Yeah. One time.”
Neither of us moves.
Neither of us believes it.
He slides a piece of hair behind my ear, but I’m pretty sure there isn’t one to slide. He just wants to touch me.
The idea of it is thrilling.
“But next time maybe we do something safer,” he suggests.
“I would like a next time.”
Who am I even right now?
His lips curl up in the most delicious way. “So would I.”
The timer beeps, and his eyes flick to the kitchen. “I have to finish my class.”
I nod. “And give away those swag bags.”
He grins. “Yeah. Until next time.”
I nod, still not even sure what we’re talking about. I’ve been out of the dating scene for so long.
What’s next time?
A date?
Sex?
Both?
I’m game for anything at this point.
I watch him strut back to the kitchen, and the women gather around him.
Then my mind shifts.
What does never mean? He never invites women to cook with him?
Why me?
Why now?
What’s this pull between us?
I certainly didn’t start a month-long adventure to fall for the first guy I bump into naked?
Fall for?
We’ve known each other for a day. There’s no way I’ve fallen for him.
Cash glances at me. It’s quick. Just a catch as he moves his head, but his eyes find mine. And the moment doesn’t feel quick because no one has ever looked at me the way he does in that second.
No one.
And I’ve never felt the way I do in this second.
Panic and uncertainty arise.
What is this feeling?
Lust?
Love?
Foolishness?
I’m on my feet before I can think, and I’m down the hallway and in my room as fast as I can.
Cash Can Cook.
I flop into one of the cozy chairs with my cell and open my social media.
“Cash. Can. Cook.” I say each word as I type it in.
There he is.
The naked cook.
The naked baker.
Never-ending reels of him making love to the ingredients. Not literally, but damn, if he touched a woman the way he touches the food.
I shouldn’t scroll.
I do.
I should stop three reels in.
I don’t.
How can I tear away from forearms flexing, flour-dusting muscles? An apron hangs low on his hips, but he’s naked underneath. Glimpses show no pants—no briefs.
The pan sizzled when the bacon hit the heat.
The way he lays the strips down is sexy. He knows exactly what he’s doing to the viewer on the other side of the screen, but then he disappears into his own head, like he forgets he’s recording.
The sound alone is obscene.
Crackling.
Popping.
A performance, but is it?
I shift, my panties wet.
Is it even about the recipe anymore?
He flips the bacon, and it bends, glistening, perfectly like his sweaty body.
Focus.
It’s just food.
Pork. Grease. Protein.
But then he leans closer to the stove, and his chest catches the light. No one should be allowed to look like that while cooking.
It’s a thirst trap disguised as brunch.
Next reel.
Bread kneading this time. Strong hands pressing, folding, and stretching dough until it gives in completely.
My phone feels warmer in my hand. Or maybe it’s just me. I’m on fucking fire.
This is not a baking account. It’s foreplay with a recipe. I’m being seduced by bread and bacon.
Ridiculous.
Completely ridiculous.
I watch another one. And another.
A knock on the door jolts me. I jump, and my phone goes flying.
“Shit.”
It hits the carpet, but I don’t lunge for it. I just take a second to press my hand against my chest and calm down. It’s no use. My heart is pounding like mad. My core thrumming.
Another knock. “Shay?” A sexy rumble pushes through the door.
Oh my god, it’s him.
And I’m ready. I’m really ready.
For what?
Sex?
Am I going to sleep with either?
Yes. Maybe. No.
I have no idea.
But I cross the room to find out.