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“Good boy,” she coos.
My cock twitches. It’s like a switch has been flipped, and now I can’t turn it off. Is there anything Lila can do that won’t turn me on?
She winks at me, and my poor dick gives another desperate jerk.
Apparently not.
This is the second time that Lila has asked me a question while we’re shooting that I missed what she said. I don’t think anyone can actually blame me, since watching her hands work is…distracting. She’s so effortlessly confident in what she does, but just like when we were kids, she gets this little furrow between her brows when she’s concentrating on the ingredients in front of her that is just as endearing now as it had been back then.
“Start again,” someone calls from off set.
Lila grins at me. “You dozing off on me, Cupcake?”
“Just…really interested in the process.”
I can tell by the way her teeth press against her lower lip that she knows exactly why I’m not paying attention, and that it has everything to do with her sweet voice and her authoritative command of her kitchen. She’s just so in her element that it’s hard not to get a little swept away by her. I find myself slightly aroused by it but also infinitely proud of her all at once, and it’s a very confusing set of emotions to deal with at the same time.
Her smile brightens for a second, and then she collects herself, turning the mixer to a slow setting for a few seconds so she can start the segment again.
“Do you know why they call these choux pastries?”
She pronounces it like shoe, but that doesn’t really help me out any. I shake my head. “Does it have anything to do with them being footwear at some point?”
“No.” She rolls her eyes even as her lips curl. “Choux means cabbage in French.”
My nose scrunches. “And?”
“And,” she huffs with amusement, “the finished product looks a little like tiny heads of cabbage.”
I can feel myself frowning. “Well, that sounds…appetizing.”
“They’re going to be amazing,” she laughs. She gives her attention to the camera. “I promise you all, he’s going to eat at least three when we’re done.”
“We’ll see,” I answer skeptically.
I listen as she explains the next bit of her process; she transfers the dough to a piping bag after laying out a parchment paper over her baking sheet and brushing it with water, and then I feel myself leaning in as she starts to dollop perfect little three-layered blobs that look weirdly like—
“Are they supposed to look like an, ah, emoji?”
Her brow knits. “What?”
“Those.” I point to the blobs in question. “I mean…with the three layers and the little curl on top…”
Lila stares at her dollops intently for a few seconds, and then her eyes widen before she reaches to smack me in the chest. “They do not look like that emoji!”
“But you see it, right?”
“No, I absolutely don’t.”
I roll my eyes, even looking over toward the camera. “She totally does. You guys see it, right?”
The damn things look like poop emojis, and she knows it.
“You’re such a—” She presses her lips together, narrowing her eyes. “Such a bad assistant.”
“I think I’m the perfect assistant,” I say confidently. I can tell by her expression she’s not actually annoyed. “Probably the best you’ll ever have.”
The length of the moment where her eyes go round and her lips part is infinitesimal at best, and there’s no way anyone else caught it, but I fucking did. I realize now how my words could mean something entirely different, and suddenly I’m not really thinking about pastries anymore, and by the way Lila’s cheeks flush ever so slightly, I don’t think she is either.
