Chapter 16 #2
He sets the bowl of dry ingredients in front of me and gestures to the wet ingredients that he already measured out. All I have to do is put them in and turn on the gorgeous industrial mixer.
“Yeah, no problem,” I say, shifting the bowl closer. I keep my focus on the task at hand and not on the way his chuckle gusts against my neck.
Once I pour everything into the bowl, I step back, proud of myself for making it through without spilling anything. And yes, that’s how low the bar is for me. I slide the mixing bowl into place and flip the mixer onto the highest setting.
“Woah, woah, woah,” Owen says, rushing across the room. I spin to his voice to ask what I did wrong, but he’s right there, our fronts pushed together as he reaches over my shoulder to turn the mixer to a lower setting. He grins down at me. “You weren’t listening earlier, were you?”
“I was a bit distracted,” I admit. He doesn’t shift away, and neither do I. “I figured the faster it went, the faster we’d be done.”
“Baking is all about taking your time,” he says, his voice quiet. “Savoring the process. Why rush to the finish line? Getting there is half the fun.”
Are we still talking about baking? Because it doesn’t feel like we’re talking about baking, and I’m so close to throwing myself at him, consequences be damned. Before I can make another irresponsible decision, Owen’s soft gaze goes wary.
He pulls away, leaving me cold. “Anyway, you’ve got it now.”
I can’t see into his brain, don’t know if he’s upset or pulling away because I told him we needed distance, but my mind keeps winding back to the comment I made last night. The look of hurt on his face and the way my heart twisted in response.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “For what I said last night.”
He laughs, but it doesn’t come anywhere close to his eyes. “No big dea—”
“It is a big deal,” I interrupt. He doesn’t speak again, and I force myself to say the words, even though they’re hard.
“I—I lash out. When I’m feeling vulnerable.
Always have. It’s easier to hurt other people than face my own shit, but I don’t want to do that to you.
I don’t want to be someone who hurts you. So I’m sorry.”
Everything in his demeanor shifts. Muscles untensing. Eyes softening. Lips twisting up. “Thank you.”
I smile back, knowing this is dangerous, but also knowing it’s right. Owen shouldn’t carry scars from me.
“How’d you learn all of this, anyway?” I ask, gesturing to the batter.
“I, um…” he starts, but can’t bring himself to finish whatever he was going to say.
He clears his throat and tries again. “After my dad died, my mom wasn’t in the place to do …
well, anything, really. I was worried Harrison wouldn’t have a birthday cake, so I started playing around with it.
Then I fell in love with the process. When I’d come up here, Nana’s friend who’s a baker would teach me new techniques, and I’d spend the next year perfecting them before coming back to learn something new. ”
He moves so confidently around the kitchen, like he was born for it. I notice he smiles more easily here. His shoulders are less tense, and his movements are more fluid as he stops the mixer and pulls out the bowl. Of all the versions of Owen I’ve seen, I think this is my favorite.
He swipes a spoon and dips it into the batter, the smallest touch. “Here, try it.”
He holds it out to me. I move closer, and I catch his Adam’s apple bob before our gazes latch.
I close my lips around the spoon, my eyes never leaving his, and his breath hitches.
His pupils dilate at the involuntary moan that climbs my throat at the taste.
It’s delicious, just like I knew it would be.
The moment grows heavy between us, and he takes another step so our bodies are only a few inches apart. He brings his hand to my chin, rubbing his thumb over my bottom lip.
“Got a bit of something there,” he whispers, raising his thumb to his mouth and sucking the batter off.
“Owen,” I whisper.
He tosses the spoon onto the counter and brings his palms to either side of my neck, dropping his forehead to mine but not closing the distance, letting us breathe the same air.
The anticipation is killing me. His lips are so close to mine, and if he doesn’t close the gap, I’ll lose my mind.
My hands come up, landing on his stomach and scratching lightly.
With lightning speed, Owen’s hands move to my waist, lifting me with ease onto the metal counter and stepping between my legs. A whimper that should embarrass me escapes my lips, and Owen runs his nose against mine.
“I can’t stop thinking about that kiss,” he says in a guttural voice.
“Me neither,” I pant out.
He groans. “God, I need to taste you again. Please. Please, can I kiss you?”
I love the way he begs, how his hands on each of my thighs tighten while he waits for my answer.
In response, I grab his shirt, pulling his lower half flush with mine.
We moan in tandem, my head tilting back so our lips brush, but I don’t say yes yet.
Torturing him is too much fun, maybe my new favorite pastime.
I roll my hips and he lets out a hiss. “Thea,” he says, a warning in his voice, almost a scolding, and I wonder how far I’d have to push him before he’d turn me over his knee and punish me.
But just as the vision flashes through my mind, I hear voices on the other side of the door. My body has never gone from turned on to panicked so quickly, like I jumped off a cliff expecting the warm Florida waters, only to realize I was doing an ice plunge.
I push him away. He stumbles a few steps, staring at me in confusion until the voices break through his lust-fogged mind, too.
I flip my body back over the counter—no one can accuse us of anything if there’s a literal barrier between us—but in the process I take the bowl of batter with me.
It tips over, sliding across the counter space with me until it lands, upside down, on my head.
The door swings open and two middle-aged guys—carbon copies of each other—walk in.
They’re tall, with the same blue-green irises I’m starting to recognize as the Ellis eyes.
As I wipe the cake batter from my face, I realize that one of them, not sure which, is the drunk man who spilled his drink all over that guy at the bar.
“What’s happening here?” Twin One asks.
Owen looks over and sees me covered in cake. I expect him to freak out about us having to start over from the beginning, to scold me for screwing up his hard work, but instead he laughs, a booming bass. The largest smile I’ve ever seen spreads across his face, and I finally get to see that dimple.
“You two having a food fight in here?” Twin Two asks.
“Thea has a cake fetish,” Owen says. “Sitting in them, pouring them over her head, she’s not picky. It all gets her going.”
The twins laugh, and Owen’s smile somehow spreads even more. He looks over at me, giving me a quick wink that has my knees going weak.
“Happy to provide the entertainment,” I say, walking over to the sink. I splash away the batter from my face and wet a few paper towels, wiping away as much as possible from my hair until I can get to a shower.
“What are you two even doing?” Twin Two asks.
“We were trying to make a cake,” Owen says, with a smaller, indulgent smile sent my way. “Harrison’s baker backed out, so I’m trying to see if I can pull off a wedding cake.”
“You’re making the cake?” Twin One asks. “Fuck yeah! I love your cakes. Do you need help?”
Owen’s eyebrow quirks up. “Nope. I’ve seen what you do in the kitchen.”
“Can’t be worse than Thea,” the other twin says with a laugh.
Owen glances back, heat searing me. “Maybe not, but at least she’s nice to look at.”
The twins not so subtly nudge each other, looking back and forth between us. “We’ll let you get to it.”
When the door swings closed behind them, Owen and I stare at each other in silence for a minute, then he steps toward me with clear intent on his handsome face.
I put my hand out, stopping him before he can round the counter and mess up my control again. He blinks, but takes a few steps back.
“Owen,” I say, but he cuts me off.
“No, I get it.”
“It’s not that I don’t—”
“Come on, we don’t need to do that.”
“Yes, we do,” I say, a bit of desperation in my voice, but he turns away with a shake of his head.
“Thea, it’s fine. I’m not the kind of guy you—”
“Yes, you are,” I say. He has to understand. I need him to understand. “If you think I don’t want you, you aren’t paying attention. But it’s not just about me. I can’t ruin this wedding.”