Page 80 of A Love Like Christmas Time
“I’ll knead it.” He measures out some clove powder, then adds a pinch of nutmeg. “Always putting me to work,” he mutters under his breath, pouting as he trudges past me to wash his hands. “She only wants me for my skills.”
“Hey,” I say softly and pull on his shirt until his eyes meet mine. “I also want you because you’re hot.” I wink at him. He rolls his eyes, pretending to be annoyed, but I can see a hint of blush creeping into his cheeks.
I purse my lips for a kiss. He leans over and obliges before returning to the bowl, trying to fight a grin, and digs his hand into it.
“What the- Caleb! Holy biceps!”
I lean on the counter, propping my elbows on it and cradling my chin in my hands, as I watch him knead the dough. It’s not as if he has to put a huge amount of strength into it, nevertheless, it makes his biceps bulge, and my tongue flicks out to wet my lips.
“It’s like a personal peep show. Yes, give it to the dough.” Maybe I do get the appeal of thirsty baking content.
“I feel violated,” he jokes, turning the bowl in his arm as he kneads it with his other hand.
“And those shoulders,” I tease, bursting into a giggle when his ears turn red. “Don’t be embarrassed.” He shoots me a sharp look over his shoulder, a tint of pink on his cheeks.
He quickly changes the topic, holding out a tiny bit of dough. “I have no idea what the flavor is supposed to be. You’ll have to be the taste tester.”
“A heavy burden I’m willing to bear,” I say, and lean over, putting lips around his finger, scooping up the dough with my tongue.
“Mmm.” A happy hum escapes me when the flavor of cinnamon, butter, nutmeg, and clove hits my tongue. I open my eyes, catching his heated gaze.
“A little more cinnamon, I think,” I say, tapping my lips.
He tries a tiny piece himself, nods, and then adds more, giving the dough another good knead. “Like this?” He holds out another piece for me to try, and I lean in, taking it from his fingers with my lips.
“Yes, that’s perfect.”
“Good.” He slides the bowl over to me. “Put it in the fridge, and we’ll figure this wooden cookie-form thing out.”
He washes his hands again as I wrap the dough in clingfilm and place it in my fridge. When I’m back at the kitchen island, he stays behind me, his chest rising with each breath against my back, as he watches the video over my shoulders. His arms cage me against the kitchen island, his breath feathering against my neck.
“Okay. Getting the dough in there, I understand,” he mumbles, and my breath hitches. Fuck. I didn’t pay attention to the video at all, I'm way too distracted by his sheer existence. “But how the fuck are we going to cut the rest of the dough off and get it out?”
“I think we’re going to need a lot of flour,” I mumble, sensing him nod behind me.
"Maybe with some kind of string?"
“Okay,” I think out loud and nod. “I’ll take the drawers on the left side; you take the right. First one to find something that works gets a kiss and triumph.”
He chuckles and pulls open random drawers on his side. I sigh, already missing his warmth against my back.
Now, let’s see if I own anything that proves useful for this.
But there’s nothing in my drawers. Only cutlery, a bunch of random cookie cutters and cake pans I bought on a whim but never needed. And some cute oven mitts that aren’t particularly effective, but I couldn’t bear to throw away.
“Found something.” I whirl around. What in the ever-loving hell could he have found?
“Oh wow. Sure, I said to search, but never in a million years did I think you’d actually find anything,” I say in awe as he holds up kitchen twine.
“Look at you, having useful stuff.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “Okay, we have a plan. The dough needs to chill for another hour, and then we can start.” He sets down the string and slowly walks towards me, laying his hands on my hips when he comes to a stop, close enough that I can smell the oak scent of his shampoo.
“What shall we do in the meantime?”
“I have an idea.” I bite my lip, but it doesn’t help in the slightest to contain the wide grin that tugs at the corners of my mouth.
“Oh no,” Caleb says amusedly. “I know that look.”
“You and me, Caleb,” I say, voice barely louder than a breath, sliding my hands up his arms, my fingers interlacing in the back of his neck. “We are going to romanticize the fuck out of Christmastime. You can’t escape.”
