She inspects my work and nods. “You’re not bad at this.”
“Well, I have a good teacher.”
She reaches for the cupcake pans and our arms brush, her eyes catching on the maple-leaf tattoo again. It’s only the briefest touch, but her skin is soft and warm against mine, and I find myself wishing I could find an excuse to make it happen again.
She slides the pan into the oven and sets a timer. “This time, I won’t sleep through the alarm, I promise.” Then she holds up a piping bag as she turns back to the frosting. “Want to try?”
I grimace. “Is this where I fail miserably?”
“Probably. But we’ll just practice first on one of the less-than-perfect cupcakes.”
She slides a few misshapen cupcakes toward me and shows me how to pipe a swirl design.
It looks easy enough, but I squeeze it too quickly and immediately create a frosting blob that looks like the work of a preschooler.
She covers her mouth, trying not to laugh. “Okay,wow. That is…something.”
“Tell me it has character,” I say, setting it proudly on the tray.
“It definitely makes a statement—just not the one I want. Maybe a lighter touch?”
“Yeah, I’m not exactly used to being gentle with my hands,” I say. If she knew how I manhandled pucks, bodychecked giants on the ice, and slammed into the boards, she’d understand why I squeeze the frosting bag like I’m strangling it.
“May I?” Her hands hover near mine.
“Sure,” I say, offering her the piping bag. Instead of taking it, she places her hands over mine and guides me. “I want you to feel the pressure of my hands on yours,” she says, avoiding my eyes as she concentrates on the bag.
The pressure of her fingers wrapped around my own is enough to make me lose my focus. “Now just knead the bag…”
When she lets go, I squeeze too hard, and the frosting spurts all over the counter. “I was good until you stopped helping me.”
She laughs. “Stick to wrenches, Lucian. Frosting isn’t your thing.”
“Give me one more shot,” I say, determined to get this right. “I can learn to be gentler…” I pause, letting the words hang between us as my eyes find hers. “With the right guide.”
“One more lesson,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Then you’re on your own.”
She hesitates, then wraps her fingers around mine again. “Think of holding something fragile,” she murmurs, guiding my hands in a careful circle over the cupcake, every point of contact sending heat racing up my arms. “Something you don’t want to break.”
I’m trying to focus on the cupcake, but all I can think about is the way her thumb brushes across my knuckles, how her hair falls forward to hide her face, and how she’s close enough that I could count her eyelashes if I wanted to. Which I absolutely do.
Her breath brushes my arm, and suddenly I’m hyperaware of everything—her hands on mine, the way she smells like vanilla and cinnamon, the fact that we’re standing way too close for me to be thinking straight.
When we finish, she looks up at me, and for one electric moment, I’m not thinking about frosting at all.
“Like this?” I murmur.
She nods, and her eyes drop to my mouth for just a second—so quick I might have imagined it, but it’s enough to make my pulse slam against my throat.
“Perfect,” she whispers, and I’m not sure if she means the frosting or this moment.
The oven timer beeps, and she jerks away so fast she nearly stumbles. “The cupcakes!” she says, fumbling for a hot pad.
I drag a hand through my hair, trying to get my pulse back under control.
This isexactlyhow you mess things up.
She needs patience and space. What shedoesn’tneed is her neighbor rushing her into another relationship. Earning her trust is the only way to prove I’m different from Nate. That means stepping back and letting her set the pace.
