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Oh.
My.
God.
My eyes move greedily over the corded, lightly freckled muscle of Ian’s forearms, drinking in the swirls of ink that cover each one.
When did he get those?
I can make out some shapes and a block of script that I can’t read at this distance, and my fingers itch to explore, to see how far they go. Does he have them anywhere else, I wonder?
He continues to roll each sleeve right up over his elbow, and I can see more dark ink creeping up his biceps, making them all the more lickable. My brain actually fizzles a little. Someone could ask me right now what the hell it is we are making, and I might honestly not be able to tell them. It could be a goddamned soufflé for all I know.
“Here,” he says, his sleeves effectively rolled and my mind effectively blown. “Let me.”
I nod mutely as he takes the bowl from me, and I know I should be explaining something, giving a fun fact about the dish and where it originated—but I am helpless to do anything but watch him pour batter over a bowl of cherries as if it’s the sexiest thing a man has ever done. Honestly, at this very moment, it very well might be.
Ian looks pleased when he’s done, giving me one of his rare-ish smiles that is full and open, and it’s too much, really. Baking, ink, and full-blown smiles? They’re going to be paying me workers’ comp after this for stress-related injuries. I don’t realize I’m just standing there gawking like an idiot until I hear Ava quietly saying my name, a gentle way of telling me to snap the hell out of it.
My cheeks flame, and it takes absolutely every bit of willpower to smile at the camera and pretend that whatever…that was didn’t happen, but I’m fully aware that the studio and Ian all saw me lose my mind for about four seconds.
And we haven’t even gotten the damned thing in the oven yet.
“Cut! That was great, guys. We’ve got plenty to work with here.”
I shoot Greg a smile before peeking to my left to check on Ian, finding him already wrestling the apron over his head only seconds after the camera has stopped rolling.
“Wow, you were counting the seconds down until you could do that, weren’t you?” I laugh.
He rolls his eyes, tossing the garment on the counter before reaching to rub at the back of his neck. “Damn string was irritating the shit out of me.”
“Sure it was.” I pull my own apron off, chancing a glance at my chest and confirming that, yes, there is flour there. “How did you manage not to get a single thing on your jersey?”
He peers down his front. “Maybe I’m just less clumsy than you are.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
His lips twitch. “You’re the professional here. How do you manage to get so dirty?”
“Well, when you’re carrying the team…”
He rolls his eyes. “I helped.”
“You did,” I chuckle. “You didn’t burn anything down, at least.”
He follows me when I step away from the set, his heavy footsteps not far behind mine when we move from the raised platform of the stage to the refreshments area set up nearby. I grab a bottle of water and then offer one back to Ian, eyes lingering briefly on his hands as the memory of what his sleeves are hiding flit through my thoughts.
“So,” I say as I unscrew the cap on my water, “I never pegged you as being into tattoos.”
He looks thoughtful for a brief moment before he shrugs. “My mom always said that you can’t get just one, because you’ll become addicted. I guess she was right.”
“I only got one,” I counter. I take a swig from my bottle before adding, “Haven’t had the urge yet to get any more.”
He cocks one eyebrow at me, perching his fists on his hips to give me a stern look that absolutely doesn’t have me repressing a shiver. “You have a tattoo?”
I beam back at him. “Sure do.”
“What is it?”
