He had me there. I gestured at the fridge, flooded with a weird cocktail of affection and panic. "What is this? A hostile takeover of my system?"
"I prefer to think of it as collaborative enhancement." Jake reached past me for the flour canister on the counter, his hip brushing mine in the process. "Someone had to improve the pie situation around here."
"What are you doing with that?"
"Relax. I'm just going to—"
The flour hit me square in the chest before I realized he'd even removed the lid. A white puff exploded across my practice shirt, and Jake stepped back, with a mischievous grin spreading across his face.
"Did you just—"
"Improve your aesthetic? Yes." He dusted his hands off like he'd accomplished something meaningful. "You're welcome."
I looked down at the flour coating my shirt, then back up at Jake's stupidly pleased expression. "You realize this means war."
"Does it?"
I grabbed a handful of flour from the counter and launched it at his chest—direct hit. Jake looked down at the white pattern now decorating his abs.
"Nice accuracy, Carter."
"I don't miss."
"Noted, but I think you missed the point." He scooped up a significantly larger handful. "The point being that you started it."
"I absolutely did not—"
The flour explosion cut off whatever protest I attempted. He'd gone for volume over precision, and white powder erupted across us like a baking-themed bomb detonated in our kitchen.
What followed could generously be called a tactical flour deployment and more accurately be described as two grown men losing their collective minds in a kitchen transformed into a war zone.
"Surrender now, and I'll consider mercy," I said, trying to sound threatening even though I was probably grinning like an idiot.
"Mercy's overrated."
He feinted left, then dove right, somehow managing to get behind me and wrap his arms around my waist in what was either the world's most aggressive hug or a very unconventional takedown attempt. We wrestled for control of the flour canister, laughing too hard to be effective, white powder flying everywhere as we spun around the kitchen.
"We're going to have to clean this up," I said. It was the most Evan Carter thing I could have said in that moment.
"Later, after we properly assess the damage."
He spun me around, and suddenly I was close enough to count the freckles that dusted his nose and see the flour caught in his eyelashes. His hands settled on my waist, thumbs pressing just above my hipbones, and the kitchen was suddenly very quiet.
"Damage assessment. You've got—" He reached up, thumb brushing along my jaw. "Right there."
"Better?" I asked, though I was pretty sure we both knew the flour was beside the point.
"Getting there."
When he kissed me, I tasted laughter on his lips.
I kissed him back, one hand tangled in his hair, the other gripping the edge of the counter for something solid to anchor me. Jake Riley kissing me in our flour-dusted kitchen was thekind of thing that could knock a person completely off their axis if they weren't careful.
His hands slid up my back, flour-dusty palms warm through my practice shirt, and suddenly the counter wasn't only something to lean against. It was something to sit on.
Jake's hands settled on my hips, lifting without effort, and then I was perched on the marble edge with Jake standing between my knees, both of us breathing a little harder.
The marble was cold through my shorts, contrasting with Jake's warm hands as they settled back on my waist.
