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“Yeah, yeah.”
He takes the apron from me—just like mine, with the show’s name embroidered over the front—gripping the looped neck in his hands and lifting it to pull it over his head. The pink totally clashes with his hair, but the sight of him in it takes him down from smolderingly sexy to comfortably cute. I should make him wear it more often so I can have an easier time not turning into a simp whenever he’s within a ten-foot radius.
“Dee!” the cameraman calls. “They want to know if you’re ready to get rolling.”
“I think so,” I call back, checking my ingredients again to make sure that, yes, they’re all there and accounted for. I peek over at Ian, who looks a little queasy as he grimaces at the large camera being rolled up closer to the stage. “You ready, Cupcake?”
His face is still sort of pinched when he meets my eyes, but he nods, albeit warily. “Let’s just get this over with.”
“That’s the spirit,” I laugh.
Thirty minutes into filming, and things are going far better than I expected them to go, admittedly. Ian has never shown any sort of aptitude in the kitchen, from what I remember, and I half worried he might drop a bowl or stick his hand into the batter or something. He’s engaging if not quiet in front of the cameras, answering my questions and asking plenty of his own as I walk him through mixing the ingredients, and all of it reminds me of summers in my aunt’s kitchen with him impatiently waiting to taste something I was trying out. It’s distracting, but not enough that I can’t maintain my normal camera persona.
“So, that should do it for the batter,” I note, checking the consistency. “How are my cherries?”
Ian peeks into the baking dish that he’s been meticulously arranging cherries into with some slivered almonds, as if they needed to be just right at the bottom. “They’re in there.”
“Julia Child would be so proud,” I laugh.
His brow furrows, eyeing my bowl. “That looks like cake batter.”
“It’s similar,” I tell him. “The almond extract makes it a little nuttier.”
I dip my spoon into the bowl, bringing the edge to my mouth to taste as flavors explode against my tongue. “Mm.”
Ian makes an almost imperceptible noise, almost like clearing his throat but softer, and I notice his big body shift a little beside me.
“You’re not supposed to eat the batter,” he scolds.
“Okay, Dad,” I scoff. I smirk in his direction as I deliberately give my spoon another lick to catch the lingering bits of batter I missed. “But it’s the best part.” I wink at the camera after I slide my spoon from my mouth. “Listen, I know raw batter is bad, but sometimes being bad is worth it.” I mm exaggeratedly. “Life is short, or as the French say, ‘la vie est trop courte pour boire du mauvais vin.’ ”
Ian’s mouth is turned down into a frown, but his eyes aren’t on mine, instead fixed on my mouth. I can almost imagine a slight heat to his gaze, and if I let my eyes linger too long on his face, I can almost tell myself his cheeks are slightly flushed. It makes me want to whisper more French nothings in his ear. Dirty talk really is better in French, honestly.
Ian is still looking at my mouth, and it’s stupid, the idea that pops up into my head, and they’re definitely going to cut it from filming, but the tight look on Ian’s face makes it irresistible.
“Oh, come on, Cupcake,” I coo. “Live a little.”
My heart hammers a bit as I grab another spoon and dip it into the batter, holding it out with my hand underneath to catch any drippings so that Ian can taste it for himself. There’s a moment where I think he’ll refuse; his lips are pursed and his eyes are hard to read, and I’m seconds away from pulling the spoon back and laughing it off as a joke when his wide palm reaches to cup the back of my knuckles, his fingers curling around the hand holding my spoon and enveloping it in his warm grip.
The inhale that rushes past my lips is short and quiet, but as close as he is, I can’t help but wonder if he hears it. His eyes hold mine until the last second as he pulls the spoon in and lets his plush lips taste some of the batter he’d just been scolding me over, but I can’t even bring myself to point out this hypocrisy with the way my skin is tingling beneath his touch.
“It is good,” he admits, his fingers still holding my knuckles. “Still bad for you though.”
I swallow, something that wasn’t all that difficult prior to about seven seconds ago, pulling back my hand and both mourning and celebrating the loss of his touch for the havoc it wreaks on my system.
“Right,” I laugh shakily, trying to compose myself. I manage to look sure when I glance back at the camera—I think so, at least—but I can’t help but wonder if they can see my pulse hammering in my throat even from the other side of the lens. “Ian has always been a stickler for the rules.”
I don’t look at him as I set my spoon on the rest nearby, focusing on the bowl of batter that has just become the bane of my existence.
“Let’s pour this over the cherries, huh?” I remember the whole appeal of “big hockey player trying to bake” then, giving Ian my brightest smile that I can only hope doesn’t betray my racing heart. “Or do you want to do the honors?”
“I can do it,” Ian says quietly, nodding as he reaches for the bowl.
I nod at the sleeves of his jersey. “Unless you want a dry cleaning bill, I suggest you roll those up.”
“Oh.” He glances at his wrists. “Right.”
I watch as he reaches to grip the fabric of one sleeve, starting the slow process of rolling it up, and my tongue suddenly becomes glued to my mouth.
