Page 68 of Timelessly Ours
“I think it would take a lot more than a few shots to get you to lose control around me.”
“I've lost control around you on a lot less,” he counters, gripping the edge of the counter.
“You’re not mad?”
“Do I look it?”
I narrow my eyes, wishing that my sixth sense worked when it came to this man. “I don’t know.”
He smirks, pleased that I can’t read him. “Fair enough. No, I'm not. But I don’t like that this is the second week in a row that you’ve used part of your pay to buy something for either Rory and me.”
I frown, then remember the pricey—yet totally cool—outfit I bought for Rory just to mess with her dad. And also because I thought she’d look adorable dressed like me.
I shrug carelessly. “I’m free to spend my money on whatever I choose.” It’s…the Nicole answer. The carefree, frivolous person I put out for the world. What I really wish I could say is that don't want him changing his lifestyle because he was kind enough to give me work and a place to live.
“Besides,” I add. “This...was more for me than it was for you. I'm a mixologist. This is my art.”
He rubs his chin, observing my ‘artwork’. “Do you want this to be your art?”
“I’m not tempted if that's what you're asking.”
“It’s not what I’m asking, but since you mentioned it, why not?”
“Because I'm working. Just like when I was at the bar.”
He nods.“I have an art too, you know?” He moves to a cabinet over the counter, pulling at baking goods. Flower, jam, cookie cutters, and powdered sugar. I watch him with interest. “What are you doing? You just landed from a seven-hour flight, it’s after ten, you are not going to bake right now.”
“I'm a little tipsy. Might need some help,” he calls back, ignoring me.
I cross my arms. He glances back and sees my protesting stance. “You need to go to sleep.”
He turns and points a wooden spoon at me as he slowly closes the distance between us, grabbing an apron off the hook on his way. “This is your fault.”
“Mine?”
“You and your art.”
He puts the apron over my head and pulls my hair from under the neckline. Then takes the loose strings at the sides and ties them around my back.
The way he lets his body press gently against mine, the way he breathes me in when he leans close, is intoxicating. It sends millions of shivers down my spine, my arms, my thighs.
“Are we about to make a mess?” I ask, sounding a little hopeful.
“The biggest.”
An hour later, Royce pulls a tray full of jam filled cookies from the oven.
At some point, the apron ended up on him instead of me, he’d finished off the last of the shots I’d prepared and I’m pretty sure is pretending to be more drunk than he is.
No. I know he’s pretending. I’ve been serving the man drinks for over eight months. He doesn’t lose control. He could likely walk a tightrope after a few shots of whisky.
While he’s examining the baked goods to make sure they’re done, I sneak another finger dip of powdered sugar. The one ingredient we’re not supposed to use until the cookies have cooled.
Royce chooses that moment to glance back at me. I drop my hand.
“What are you doing?”
“Me? Nothing.” I press my lips together to hide my smile.
