I shift gently, trying not to wake him, but his grip tightens. His voice, thick with sleep, grazes the back of my neck.
“Don’t even think about it.”
A smile tugs at my lips. I press a kiss to his jaw. “I have more pies to bake.”
The fact Derek bought me a bakery still feels like a dream.
“Let ’em wait,” he murmurs, nuzzling behind my ear. “The world can survive without sugar for one more hour.”
“Not if the town expects my apple pies tonight. This is your fault, by the way. You bought the bakery and promised them dessert.” I slip out from under his arm, wincing as my thighs protest. “Also? Ow.”
He props himself up on one elbow, hair mussed, grinning like he invented sin. “That was the goal.”
My cheeks flush hot. I lob a pillow at his smug face.
By the time I tug one of his shirts over my head and pad downstairs, the sun has started pouring through the kitchen windows. The farmhouse is still, wrapped in that early hush of birdsong and the low purr of the coffeemaker.
I’ve barely rolled out the first pie crust when he appears in the doorway. Shirtless. Sweatpants riding low, the V of his hips drawing my eyes like a dare.
“Didn’t think you’d start without me,” he says.
“You bake now?”
“I assist.” He ties an apron around himself with exaggerated precision. “Strictly muscle and moral support. Thought you could use a hand, since this is all my fault.”
He steps closer, arms sliding around my waist, breath brushing the nape of my neck before his lips do. Warm. Comforting.
God, I love how he always wants to kiss me. Everywhere.
His grip tightens. Just a little too much. Like letting go means losing me.
I melt into him for a beat… Then flick a bit of flour over my shoulder. It lands on his chest.
He freezes. “Did you just start a war?”
“Guess you’ll have to find out.”
Flour hits my hair like a snowstorm.
“Derek!”
It escalates fast.
Flour. Dough. Laughter.
He lifts me onto the counter, but I kiss him before he can retaliate. It distracts him for half a second, until he dips me into a kiss that curls my toes and brands us both in flour handprints.
We’re breathless. Grinning. And for a few blissful minutes, the world shrinks to this kitchen.
Not May Day. Not Mike. Not forged papers or looming lies.
Just heat, and home, and him.
He wipes flour from his arms, his grin easy, boyish. Like this is just another lazy morning, another pie-filled day.
But my heart twists, sharp and quiet.
Because I’m still lying to him.
