Chapter 6
SIX
TYLER
By the time I flip the sign from OPEN to CLOSED, my feet are screaming.
Concert weekends always wipe us out. Tonight was worse.
Between the desserts for the concert, Frank’s wedding order, and the normal Saturday rush, I’ve been moving since two-thirty this morning. Every muscle in my back reminds me exactly how many fifty-pound bags of flour I’ve hauled today.
The crew filters toward the employee door while I start wiping down the espresso machine. Rachel is counting the register, humming under her breath, when the bell over the front door jingles.
I frown. “We’re clo—“
The words die in my throat.
Elizabeth stands just inside the bakery with a paper bag in one hand and a chilled bottle tucked under the other arm.
She smiles.
“Am I too late?”
My exhaustion evaporates. “For you? No.”
She lifts the bag.“You mentioned that Russo’s makes the best pastrami sandwich in Vegas.”
My eyebrows climb. “I did.”
“So I stopped there.” Then she lifts the bottle. “And I figured getting through the concert deserved a celebration.”
Rachel slowly looks from Elizabeth to me then lights up like a Christmas tree. “Oh, this is adorable.”
I clench my jaw. “It is not.”
“It absolutely is.”
Elizabeth laughs. “I brought enough sandwiches for everyone.”
Rachel clutches her heart. “Have I told you I love her?”
I sigh.
She pats my shoulder sympathetically. “You’ve been replaced.”
I shake my head.
Elizabeth walks behind the counter without hesitation, setting the food on the prep table. Then, before I can even think to say anything, she washes her hands at the sink.
Not because anyone asked. Just because that’s what you do before touching anything in a bakery. I catch myself smiling.
She notices. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You smiled.”
“I smile all the time.”
Both women just stare at me.
“...Fine.”
Rachel closes the register with a satisfied click. “I’m going to leave you two alone before Tyler combusts from having feelings.”
“I don’t have feelings.”
“Oh, honey.” She walks over, stealing a sandwich from the bag. “Thanks for the emotional support pastrami.”
Elizabeth is laughing so hard she’s bent over the prep table.
Rachel calls over her shoulder, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“That narrows absolutely nothing,” I mutter
“Oh! One more thing.”
I already don’t like the sound of that.
She pulls out her phone. “Smile.”
Before either of us can protest—
Click.
Elizabeth laughs.
Rachel circles us like she’s photographing celebrities. “I’m documenting.”
“Stop.”
“You’ll thank me later.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I sincerely doubt that.”
She lowers the phone, looking entirely too pleased with herself. “I like her.”
Elizabeth smiles. “I like you too.”
Rachel beams.
“See?” She points at me. “I have excellent taste.”
I groan. “Please go on your date.”
“I’m leaving.” She winks at Elizabeth. “Good luck with him.”
“I think I’ll need it.”
“You definitely will.”
“Hey.” Neither of them pays me any attention.
Rachel disappears through the employee entrance, humming happily to herself.
A second later I hear her car start. Silence settles over the bakery. The kind that only happens after closing.
I walk to the front door. Turn the lock. Check it twice. When I turn back, Elizabeth has already tied one of my spare aprons around her waist.
She catches me looking. “What?”
“You found the aprons.”
“They’re where they’ve always been.”
“I never told you.”
She shrugs. “Everything is put away where it makes sense.”
I chuckle quietly. “You notice everything.”
“I try.”
She reaches into the paper bag and hands me half a sandwich. “You should eat before you teach.”
I unwrap it. Extra mustard. The pickle chips I like. Exactly the bread I always order.
“You remembered all of that?”
She shrugs, as if to say, “What, like it’s hard?”
Like of course she’d remember. I don’t know why that hits me as hard as it does.
Maybe because so few people actually listen.
We eat standing across from one another, trading bites of sandwich and sipping champagne straight from mismatched coffee mugs because neither of us can find the flutes Rachel insists we own.
When we’re finished, Elizabeth wipes her hands and grins. “What are we making?”
I think for a second.
“My brown butter maple filling.”
“The famous one?”
“The very same.”
She grins. “I won’t ask for the recipe.”
“Good.”
“I’ll simply figure it out.”
I point a wooden spoon at her. “Those are fighting words.”
She laughs. “Teach me, Donut Daddy.”
I nearly choke. “I thought we’d retired that nickname.”
“I don’t think your forearms get a vote.”
“My forearms have never been consulted on anything.”
“They’re very expressive.”
I shake my head, unable to stop smiling.
“Hopeless.”
“Completely.”
I hand her a saucepan.
“All right.”
She squares her shoulders dramatically.
“I’m ready.”
We work side by side in the quiet kitchen. She measures while I brown butter. I explain why the milk solids matter. Why temperature changes flavor.
Why patience matters more than heat.
She listens. Really listens.
Not politely. Curiously.
Then, once the filling comes together, she dips the tiniest spoon into it. “Hmm.”
I immediately look up. “What?”
“It’s incredible.”
“I know.”
“But...”
There’s always a but. She reaches for the salt. Just a pinch.
Then a lemon. One tiny squeeze.
I blink. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Trust me.”
I stir it in. Taste.
Pause. Taste again.
She folds her arms. “Well?”
I stare into the bowl. “I’ve made this recipe for six years.”
“And?”
I frown. “Fucking hell. You just made it better.”
She tries to hide her smile. And fails completely.
I look at her.
Really look at her. The flour dusting her cheek.
The champagne making her eyes sparkle.
The way she belongs in this kitchen as naturally as if she’d always been here.
“You make everything better.”
For a long moment, neither of us moves.
Then she steps closer. “Does the teacher approve of the student?”
“The student may have just taught the teacher something.”
She smiles. “I kind of like hearing that.”
“I kind of like saying it.”
She reaches up and brushes a streak of flour off my jaw.
I catch her wrist gently before she pulls away.
Our eyes meet.
Neither of us says a word.
I don’t kiss her because I planned to.
I kiss her because suddenly I can’t imagine doing anything else.
Her lips curve into a smile against mine before the kiss deepens.
She tastes faintly of champagne and lemon.
Her free hand settles against my chest, and I slide my hand carefully to her waist, drawing her just a little closer.
She comes willingly.
Like she’d been hoping I would.
When we finally pull apart, we’re both laughing softly.
“It’s a wonder you get anything done,” she murmurs.
“Oh?”
“You keep getting distracted.”
I brush my forehead against hers. “I wonder whose fault that is.”
“I’m innocent.”
“Not for a second.”
Without stopping to question whether or not it’s a good idea, I pull Elizabeth into my arms and press my mouth to hers.
She smiles against my mouth. I don’t think she even realizes she’s doing it.
Or maybe she does.
Either way, it undoes me.
“I was trying to learn how to bake,” she murmurs.
“You are.”
“This doesn’t feel like baking.”
“No,” I admit, brushing my thumb lightly along her waist. “I suppose we’ve gotten a little off track.”
“A little?”
“A very little.”
She laughs, and I swear I’d spend the rest of my life trying to earn that sound if she’d let me.
Her hands slide up my chest, smoothing over my T-shirt before resting lightly on my shoulders.
“I don’t mind the detour.”
“Good.”
“Because I don’t think I’d believe you if you suddenly started acting professional.”
“I am professional.”
She raises one eyebrow.
“You’ve kissed a student twice.”
“I don’t remember there being a rule against it.”
“There probably should be.”
“There probably should.”
Neither of us makes any move to create more distance.
If anything we drift closer.
My forehead rests against hers. For a moment, we’re just breathing into each other. Like we’ve known each other a lot longer than forty-eight hours.
“You know what’s dangerous?” she asks quietly.
“Hmm?”
“I keep expecting you to become less attractive.”
I chuckle. “How’s that working out for you?”
“It’s really not.”
“I’ve been hoping the same thing.”
She pulls back just enough to look at me. “You have?”
“I thought maybe once I got to know you...” I let the sentence hang. “...I’d discover something annoying.”
“Oh?”
“I did.”
She gasps dramatically. “I’m devastated.”
“You keep improving my recipes.”
“I made one suggestion.”
“One perfect suggestion.”
“I can’t help being brilliant.”
“I noticed.”
She grins. “I also can’t help noticing you’re smiling again.”
“I smile.”
“You smile when you’re around me.”
That catches me off guard.
She doesn’t wait for an answer.
Instead, she reaches up and brushes another invisible streak of flour from my cheek.
“I don’t think you realize you do it.”
“I don’t.”
“I don’t think so either.”
I shake my head.
“You’re very observant.”
“I told you.”
“I know.”
“No...”
She cups my face gently.
“I don’t think you do.” Her voice has softened. “I don’t think you realize how much you hide.”
My chest tightens.
“I’m not hiding.”
“Aren’t you?”
“I...”
The word dies before I can finish it. Because the truth is... I don’t know.
She studies me with those warm brown eyes that somehow make me feel completely seen.
“I think everyone online sees Donut Daddy.”
I groan. “Please don’t call me that.”
She laughs. “I had to.”
Her thumb brushes lightly across my jaw. She leans in first this time.
The kiss is slower than before. Less hurried.
As though neither of us has anything left to prove.
My hands settle at her waist while hers curl lightly around the back of my neck.
She fits against me so naturally that it’s hard to remember there was ever a time she wasn’t standing in my kitchen.
My hands move up and down her shapely hips. “Elizabeth, may I…”
“What?”
“Can I touch you?”
Her lips curl up. “I thought you were.”
“So I am.” I chuckle. “But I meant like this.”
I slide a hand between us, touching the apex of her thighs through her leggings.
She gasps, and it’s the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard. “Yes,” she practically pants. “In fact, I might cry if you stop.”
Unable to resist the sweet sounds she’s making, or the need to see if she tastes as good as the maple she just made, I tug her pants down her hips and lower myself between her thighs.
Her breath hitches as I nuzzle her through her panties. “I knew it.” I press my lips to her, already feeling her wet through the fabric. “Delicious.”
With one tug, I pull her panties away and plant my mouth on her. She gasps and I groan as I devour her, sucking and tugging at the sensitive nub between her thighs. Taking my queues from her cries.
I want more.
I want to send her over the edge.
I want to make her see every color.
But before I get my chance, she slides her fingers into my hair and tugs me up.
“Please,” she whispers, pulling my mouth to her.
I slide my fingers back to her clit to stroke. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ve got you.”
“No,” she shakes her head, and presses her lips to the racing pulse at my neck. “I want you. Inside of me.”
My fingers still, and I bury my face in the curve of her neck. “Are you sure?”
She answers by flipping open the fly of my jeans.
With a groan, I reach into my back pocket for the condom I keep tucked in my wallet. She takes it from me with greedy fingers and rips open the foil. Sliding it on over me, pumping my shaft—and making me see stars—as she does.
And when, at last, she guides my cock to the heat of her entrance, it’s all I can do not to lose my head.
I thrust in. Her fingers dig into my back. I nip at her neck. The last coherent thought I have, is that this is sweeter than any recipe I’ve made before.
She rests her forehead against mine and lets out a contented sigh.
“I think,” she says, “this might be my favorite baking lesson.”
I laugh. “We haven’t actually baked anything.”
“I’ll say we did.” She smiles wider. “And I’ll say it was fucking amazing.”
We lay on the counter another minute, holding each other while our hearts slow.
“If I’m going to keep taking lessons...” She gestures toward the flour-dusted workbench with a grin. “...you’re definitely going to have to teach me how to properly clean a professional kitchen.”
I laugh.
“Oh, trust me.” I reach for a clean towel and hand it to her. “The cleanup lesson is considerably less romantic.”
We both pull ourselves together, helping each other slide cloths back into face. As she reaches for it, her phone vibrates on the counter.
She glances at the screen. “Huh.”
“What?”
She unlocks it and gasps.
A knot forms immediately in my stomach. “What? What is it?”
“Your sister has been busy.” Elizabeth turns the phone toward me.
There we are. One picture of us laughing over the mixing bowl.
Another of me tasting the filling while she watches with that impossibly proud smile.
A third of us shoulder to shoulder at the workbench, neither of us looking at the camera.
The caption reads:
Turns out the bachelor auction wasn’t just good for charity... #DonutDaddy #WorthEveryBid #BakeryDate
I let out a long, theatrical groan.
“Well,” I grumble, rubbing a hand over my face, “it looks like our relationship just became Instagram official.”
Elizabeth pulls me in for a hug and gives a short laugh. “At least…”
“At least what?” I nuzzle her neck.
“At least she didn’t stick around to see the rest of our lesson.”