The kitchen looked like a dessert war zone — flour dusted the counters, sugar crystals sparkled on the floor, and the faint hum of the oven was drowned out by laughter.
“Are you sure you’ve ever baked before?” she asked, leaning against the counter with a wicked grin. “Because right now it looks like the chocolate gave up halfway through and died dramatically.”
Sir stirred the bowl in deliberate, unhurried motions, refusing to look at her. “Focus on your pie. Unless you want to embarrass yourself when I win.”
“Win?” She barked out a laugh, waving a flour-coated spoon in his direction. “Please. I’ve seen Pinterest fails prettier than what you’ve got going on over there.”
Finally, he glanced up — slow, dark eyes full of mock warning — and his voice dropped to that tone that always made her spine straighten. “Careful.”
She raised a brow, feigning innocence. “Careful of what? Your fragile ego?”
He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he reached across the counter and swiped a dollop of whipped cream onto the tip of her nose.
Her gasp echoed through the kitchen. “Did you just—?”
“Mm-hm.” He licked the spoon, casual as anything.
“That’s war!” She lunged, snatching a fistful of flour and flinging it at him. The white puff hit his chest and drifted down in a powdery cloud.
The kitchen went quiet.
Sir set down the spoon with deliberate slowness, wiping the flour from his shirt. Then he stepped toward her, each footfall heavy enough to make her pulse jump.
She backed up, laughing nervously until her hip hit the counter. “Sir…?”
He tilted his head, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “You think you can get away with that?”
“Um… maybe?”
“Not even close.” He closed the last inch between them, bracing one hand beside her and swiping the whipped cream from her nose with his thumb. “Messy,” he murmured, voice soft and low. “And mouthy. Dangerous combination.”
Her laughter faded to something breathless. “Maybe I like being dangerous.”
His grin softened, playful melting into protective. “I know you do. And I love that you trust me enough to show me.”
For once, she didn’t have a sarcastic comeback.
The kiss came like a spark hitting gasoline — sudden and hot, his hands framing her face as hers curled into his shirt. He kissed her like he was claiming her and comforting her all at once, until the only sound was the oven timer beeping in the background.
When they finally pulled apart, foreheads pressed together, she whispered, “So… who wins the cook-off?”
He chuckled, tucking her against his chest. “Me. Always me.”
“Rigged,” she muttered into his shirt.
“Life’s rigged,” he murmured, wrapping his arms tighter around her. “But you’re safe. That’s what matters.”