Page 70 of Checking It Twice
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sugar Rush
Clare
The Drake kitchen at dinnertime hums with action—Karen multitasking at the stove while Maddie and I work on frosting sugar cookies. It’s domestic in a way that should feel foreign to me, but instead, it feels like something I’ve been missing without realizing it.
Mitch hovers at the edges, supposedly helping but mostly just getting in the way. Every time I turn around, he’s there—reaching over me for a spoon, brushing past me to grab something from the counter, finding excuses to invade my space.
“You’re going to mess up my technique,” I tell him when he leans against the counter beside me, watching me pipe frosting onto a star-shaped cookie.
“What technique? You’re just squirting sugar.”
“It’s called artistry.”
“It’s called making a mess.”
I flick frosting at him without thinking, catching him on the cheek with a small glob of green icing. He goes still, those gray eyes darkening as he stares at me.
“Did you just—”
“Maybe.”
Something shifts in his expression—dangerous, playful, heated. Before I can react, he’s caught my wrist, bringing my frosting-covered finger to his mouth.
The contact of his lips against my skin sends electricity racing up my arm. His tongue flicks out to taste the icing, but his eyes never leave mine, and suddenly the kitchen feels ten degrees hotter.
“Sweet,” he murmurs, his voice rough.
My breath catches. Around us, his family continues their dinner prep, oblivious to the fact that my world just tilted off its axis from one simple touch.
“Mitch,” I warn, but it comes out breathless.
“What?” His thumb traces across my pulse point, feeling the way my heart is hammering against my skin. “I’m just cleaning up your mess.”
“You’re making it worse.”
“Good,” he says, echoing my taunt from the pantry. “I like making things worse for you.”
The honesty in his voice, the way he looks at me like I’m something he wants to devour—it should scare me. Instead, it makes heat pool low in my belly, makes me want to pull him somewhere private and finish what we keep starting.
“Boys!” Karen’s voice cuts through the moment. “Set the table. Dinner’s almost ready.”
Mitch releases my wrist slowly, his fingers trailing across my palm before he steps away. But the heat in his eyes promises this conversation isn’t over.
Dinner is the usual Drake family production—too much food, too many conversations happening at once, and enough warmth to make even the most cynical person believe in holiday magic. I’m squeezed between Mitch and Sophie, who’s appointed herself my personal Christmas attendant.
“Do you have Christmas stockings at your house?” she asks, cutting her roast beef into precisely equal pieces.
“Not really, sweetheart. It’s just me, so I don’t do much decorating.”
The admission slips out before I can stop it, and I catch the way Mitch’s jaw tightens slightly. Like the thought of me spending holidays alone bothers him more than it should.
“That’s sad,” Sophie declares with the brutal honesty of a six-year-old. “Everyone should have Christmas stockings.”
“Sophie,” Evan warns gently.
“It’s okay,” I say quickly. “She’s right. I should probably invest in some holiday spirit.”
