Page 38 of Working For Her Sweet Treats
“That does not reassure me.”
Jake loosens his grip and tries again. The next line is crooked but acceptable.
He looks at me. “Better?”
“Marginally.”
He continues while I begin frosting cinnamon rolls for the next morning’s display. We work side by side, bumping elbows,trading utensils, and arguing over whether “a little more” qualifies as a measurement.
Jake reaches for a level from the tool bag he left near the door.
I catch his wrist. “No.”
“The tray is uneven.”
“The table is uneven.”
“That’s worse.”
“You may not level baked goods.”
“Why do you own a rectangular pan if you don’t care whether it’s straight?”
“Put the level away.”
He obeys, but not before I see the amusement in his eyes. Music plays quietly from the speaker near the sink. An old country song comes on, slow and warm, filling the pauses between us.
Jake holds out one hand.
“What are you doing?” I ask
“Testing whether you can follow directions outside a cooler.”
I place my hand in his. Jake pulls me closer and guides me between the prep tables. There is barely enough room to move, but he turns us slowly, one hand at my waist and the other holding mine.
His chest is warm beneath my cheek. I can feel the steady beat of his heart and suddenly burst into laughing.
“What?” he asks.
“Us, Jake. Here we are dancing in bright pink bakery aprons. I hope no one can see us.”
“I’d wear anything or nothing at all to dance with you, Ava.”
Okay, my heart just officially melted. This big brawny construction guy is not embarrassed. He only wants me in his arms. This should feel too soon. Instead, it feels easy.
When the song ends, neither of us steps away.
Jake looks down at me. “How much work is left?”
“Enough.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“Three hours, maybe four.”
“Then you have time for this.”
He kisses me. There is no cold room to blame and no interruption waiting outside the door. His hand slides into my hair as he deepens the kiss, and I forget every item remaining on my production list.
