Chapter 15 Lila
Lila
I hate how much effort I’ve put into this.
The kitchen is spotless; the ingredients laid out in neat little bowls, everything prepped like I’m hosting some cooking show instead of enduring the longest, most infuriating two hours of my life.
The worst part? I actually spent time picking what we were going to bake.
At first I was going to keep it simple, something foolproof, like scones. Quick, easy, impossible to mess up. Something that wouldn’t require too much focus, because God knows I don’t want to spend the evening actually enjoying this.
But as I stood there, flipping through the recipes, something inside me resisted.
Because baking has never been just a task for me. It’s creation. Precision. The quiet magic of turning the simplest ingredients into something extraordinary. Even when I want to treat this night like a transaction, get in, get out, endure but I can’t bring myself to choose something dull.
No. If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it right.
Choux pastry.
It’s demanding. A test of patience and skill. The kind of thing that needs care, that demands attention and maybe, just maybe, it’ll keep us too busy to think about anything else.
I can already see it. Ben with his sleeves rolled up, completely out of his depth, brow furrowed in concentration as he actually tries.
For some infuriating reason, that makes my chest go tight. At least this way, I get to distract myself. At least this way, I get to work. I should feel better. But then I catch my reflection in the cafe’s window, and the self-satisfaction disappears immediately.
The dress was a mistake.
It’s too much. Too fitted. Too… deliberate.
I should’ve just worn jeans and a sweater, something casual, something that didn’t make it look like I actually thought about this.
Like I cared.
God, what was I thinking?
I shake my head, already turning on my heel. I can change. If I hurry, I can swap the dress for leggings and a hoodie, something that screams ‘I did not put any effort into this, thank you very much.’
I start toward the stairs but then a sharp knock echoes through the cafe.
I freeze.
No.
No, no, no, he’s early.
For half a second, I consider ignoring it. If I’m quiet enough, maybe he’ll think I’m not ready and give me a few extra minutes to fix this mistake.
Then another knock. Slower this time. More deliberate.
“Come on, Lila. I know you’re in there.”
Shit.
I squeeze my eyes shut, inhaling deeply before turning back to the door.
I am not going to let him see that this threw me.
I am not going to let him see that I almost ran upstairs like a flustered idiot over a damn dress.
I unlock the door and pull it open.
There he is.
Ben Ashcroft, standing in the glow of the street light, hands tucked into his coat pockets, his dark blond hair still slightly damp from his earlier shower.
His stubble is sharper than usual, jawline crisp beneath the soft glow.
His eyes flick over me, slow and assessing, and something about the way he lingers at my hemline makes my skin heat immediately.
His lips curve. “Nice dress.”
I am going to kill him.
***
Ben grips the piping bag, forearms flexing as he applies steady, controlled pressure. The dough flows out in perfect, even lines, smooth and precise.
I’ve got a front-row seat to a real-life thirst trap, like one of those unholy TikToks where a man smacks dough like it’s foreplay, grips it like he’s got sinful intentions, sniffs it for no damn reason except to make your knees weak, all while looking like six feet of heat, hunger, and pure filth.
Yet, here we are.
Ben completely focused on piping choux pastry is some kind of sensory experience.
I force my gaze away. Anywhere but there.
“You’re not going to critique my form?” he muses, not looking up.
His form?
This has to be some kind of cosmic test.
I clear my throat, praying to every deity available to not let my voice crack. “It’s… adequate.”
Ben’s lips twitch, and he lifts a brow, still freakishly composed. “Adequate?”
I nod, refusing to let my eyes drop below his face. I will not get caught up in the way his fingers flex around that bag.
I will not.
He bites back a smile. “I can go harder.”
I choke.
He squeezes the bag just a little too hard. The dough bursts out of the top, smearing across his wrist and forearm. I might pass out.
Ben exhales, annoyed but still too damn calm, wiping a streak of dough off his knuckles with his thumb. He licks his lips, studying the mess like it personally betrayed him.
“Guess I got a little carried away,” he murmurs, turning his palm up, flexing his fingers against the sticky mess.
I make a strangled noise.
Abort. Abort.
This is not a normal reaction to someone ruining pastry.
Yet my brain? Absolute filth.
He looks up. Catches me staring.
His mouth curves. Knowing.
Shit.
I turn away so fast I nearly knock over the sugar bowl. “That’s—” My voice comes out too high. I clear my throat. “That’s why I said even pressure.”
Ben watches me, licking a bit of dough off his thumb.
I grab a towel and launch it at his face. “Clean yourself up.”
He catches it one-handed, effortlessly, and I hate that it’s impressive.
“Relax, sweetheart,” he says, wiping off his hands. “It’s just pastry.”
No, it’s not.
It’s a trap. A freaking honey trap and I am not falling for it.
“Go wash up,” I say, tossing him another towel, pretending I don’t see the way his lips twitch. Pretending I’m not one more second away from completely losing my mind.
Ben catches it easily, but he doesn’t move. Oh no. He leans against the counter like he’s got all the time in the world, still watching me with that too-knowing, too-smug expression.
I narrow my eyes. “Sink. Now.”
His brows lift, amusement flickering behind those dark eyes. “Bossy.”
My pulse kicks up. Nope. We are not playing this game.
I tilt my head, raising a brow of my own. “I’d hate for the mighty Ben Ashcroft to be taken down by an unfortunate case of food poisoning.”
His chuckle is low, warm. Dangerous. “Would you?”
I roll my eyes, refusing to answer that.
He finally moves, but not without dragging things out, stretching, rolling his shoulders, making his way to the sink with an irritating, slow swagger.
I regret everything.
The second he turns on the tap, I exhale sharply, rubbing my temples. The choux is in the oven. I just need to focus.
I glance at the counter. Right. Whipped cream. We need to prep the filling and then, like some divine, horrifying revelation, it hits me.
We have to pipe the cream into the choux buns.
I physically stop.
I blink at the mixing bowl, the piping bag sitting next to it like a loaded weapon.
How did I not realise this was the worst possible thing to make?
Ben’s voice pulls me out of my spiral. “You okay over there?”
I snap my head up. Crap.
“Fine,” I say too quickly. I grab the cream, shoving it in front of me like some kind of shield. It’s fine. Everything is fine.
Ben dries his hands, walking back over, glancing at what’s left to do. His smirk returns the second he sees the piping bag.
I feel the exact moment he pieces it together.
He picks up the piping bag, turning it over in his hands. His thumb pressing against the bag just enough to test the pressure.
“So,” he drawls, flicking his gaze to me. “You want me to fill them up with cream?”
I short-circuit.
Because he says it with zero shame, zero hesitation, like this isn’t the single worst baking decision I have ever made in my life.
I lock my jaw, I am not giving him the satisfaction. I am not reacting.
Instead, I glare daggers at him. “Yes, Ben. You take the nozzle, put it inside, and squeeze.”
His lips twitch, barely, but I catch it.
Ben tilts his head, rolling up his sleeves a little higher, exposing strong forearms, the flex of tendons, veins trailing along tanned skin. He grips the piping bag like he’s done this a thousand times before, adjusting his stance, focusing in a way that makes my stomach tighten.
He does it, slow, steady pressure, filling the pastry shell in one smooth, practiced movement.
I should not be watching this.
I should not be noticing the way his fingers curl around the bag, the effortless control, the slight furrow of concentration in his brow.
I should not be feeling my entire body burn from the inside out.
But I am.
I am dying.
Ben lifts a brow without looking at me. “You’re very quiet, Lila.”
I snap back to myself so fast I almost knock the bowl of cream onto the floor. “Just focused.”
He hums, his smirk growing. “Uh-huh.”
I spin toward the sink, flipping on the cold water so hard it splashes up the front of my dress. Fantastic. I press my wrists under the stream, trying to cool down, trying to regain some kind of control over my own brain.
Behind me, Ben chuckles under his breath.
“Told you this would be fun.”
The bastard is enjoying this.
“You’re surprisingly good at that,” I mutter, focusing very hard on my own pastry, trying not to acknowledge the way his hands move, the way his shoulders flex, the way my brain is spiralling straight into the gutter.
Ben doesn’t look up.
“Always been good with my hands.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Heat explodes under my skin.
I am not losing this round. Two can play that game.
Keeping my face completely unreadable, I dip my own finger into the cream. Slowly.
Then I drag my finger past my lips, tasting it.
Ben’s jaw flexes.
I suck the cream off my finger slowly, deliberately, before pulling it free.
“Not bad,” I murmur. “Could use more vanilla.”
Ben doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
His grip on the piping bag tightens.
For the first time tonight, I have the upper hand. My victory is short lived.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP!
The smoke alarm screeches through the kitchen.
“Shit!”
I whirl around, heart slamming, yanking open the oven door. Thick smoke billows out, curling toward the ceiling, the last batch of choux buns charred to hell.
Ben laughs, low and amused. Not helping.
“Maybe you should’ve set a timer, chef.”