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“I’ll mix,” I declared, reaching for a sturdy wooden spoon and holding it up like a magic wand. Baking was the fun part, cleaning everything afterwards, not so much. I’d rather clean a spoon than the whisk from a hand mixer.

Colton nodded, stepping back to give me space, though his watchful gaze lingered. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, exuding that lazy confidence that both irritated and thrilled me.

I added a little of the dry mixture to the wet and started to stir. The resistance hit immediately—flour and butter didn’t exactly mix easily, but I was determined. I added more, stirred, added a bit more, and stirred again. The burn in my arms was real, and after a few minutes, it felt like I was mixing cement.

A frustrated huff escaped me, and I blew a stray strand of hair out of my face, muttering about how much I needed Pilates. When I got back to New York, I’d add that to my routine alongside the Botox.

Relief—and something much hotter—washed over me when a large, warm hand covered mine. The spoon stilled, and suddenly, Colton’s chest was pressed firmly against my back, his heat searing through the thin fabric of my shirt.

I sucked in a shaky breath, determined to keep my composure.

“Let me help you,” Colton murmured, his deep voice brushing against my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. His hand stayed on the spoon, guiding mine, while his other hand held the edge of the bowl steady. I couldn’t move, physically or mentally.

“You gotta go slower,” he said, his lips close enough to graze my ear. His breath was warm, sending prickles of awareness across my skin. “Take your time. Be gentle.”

Gentle. Right. The last thing I felt was gentle. My entire body buzzed with electricity as the warmth of him sank into me. Unintentionally, I leaned back the tiniest bit, letting his solid frame hold me up.

“Like this?” I whispered, my voice barely audible.

Colton chuckled, the deep, rich sound reverberating through my chest. “Yeah. Just like that. You’re doing so good.”

I couldn’t decide if he was still talking about the cookie dough.

Then, as quickly as he’d appeared, he let go, stepping back just enough to leave me reeling but still aware of his presence beside me. My hands trembled as I kept stirring, slower this time, and his watchful eyes stayed locked on me.

Colton picked up the remaining dry ingredients and tipped them into the bowl. I kept my pace steady, following his earlier advice, but his gaze burned into the side of my face.

“Are you staring at me for a reason?” I asked, flipping my hair over my shoulder as I dared to meet his eyes.

His molten gaze held mine, a teasing smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You look like you’ve never stirred cookie batter in your life.”

I rolled my eyes dramatically. “I’ll have you know, I made cookies all the time as a kid.”

Colton scoffed, his gaze still stuck on me. “Oh, yeah? Tell me more about Eleanor as a kid.”

I shook my head, looking down at the batter to avoid his playful, inquisitive stare. “I was a goody-goody,” I said, shoving the bowl between us and pointing to the empty trays beside him.

Colton grabbed the trays and slid them closer, taking the spoon I handed him. As I scooped out a dollop of dough and rolled it into a ball, he mirrored my movements, his hands surprisingly careful and precise.

“You? A goody-goody?” he asked, his voice thick with amusement. “That’s hard to picture.”

“Well, it’s true,” I replied, smirking as I dropped the dough onto the tray. “You’d be surprised.”

Colton arched a brow, his hands steady as he worked. “Something tells me you were a little hell-raiser underneath all that good-girl charm.”

I bit back a laugh. The warm, teasing tone in Colton’s voice sent a soft ache straight to my heart.

“Whatever gave you that idea?” I teased, plopping another ball of dough onto the tray, pretending not to feel the weight of his gaze on me.

“You just don’t strike me as someone who follows the rules,” he replied smoothly, his voice dipping lower. “You make your own.”

I couldn’t help but smile because, deep down, he wasn’t wrong. But I hadn’t always been like this. For years, I’d followed every rule—every expectation my dad and the world placed on me—until I learned the hard way that not everyone who claimed to have your best interests at heart actually did. Thus, sneaking down the fire escape and saying, “Fuck it,” became a common occurrence during my high school days.

“You got me there,” I admitted with a laugh, rolling another ball of dough. “What about you? I bet you were a troublemaker growing up.”

Colton scoffed and paused, his eyes distant for a moment, like he was replaying a highlight reel of all the times he’d tested every boundary in sight.

“That’s a generous way to put it,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.