His grin turns downright sinful. “Good.”
I point as we near the corner. “Turn left.”
“Yeah, I know.” He slows the car and flicks on his signal.
“Just making sure you weren’t on autopilot and accidentally heading to the arena.”
Autopilot. I’ve made my peace with it. Hell, I might even owe it a thank-you card. After all, it’s the reason I ended up in Jaxon’s bed, and somehow, we landed in this…crazy, thrilling sex-lesson arrangement.
I glance at him, my fingers tapping nervously on my leg. “Now…tell me about baking.”
He chuckles softly, the sound warm and low. “I grew up in an inn. There were always guests, always people, and I had to help out where I was needed, and I was mostly needed in the kitchen.”
“Did you enjoy it?” I ask, leaning a little closer, trying to distract myself from the fact that in a few hours he’s going to be touching me all over.
“I did. I still enjoy being in the kitchen,” he says casually, but there’s a softness to it, like he’s remembering something he doesn’t usually share.
“It’s good to do things you enjoy.” A beat and then. “If hockey doesn’t work out for you,” I tease. He grins, and I continue with, “You have to have skilled hands to be a baker.”
Skilled hands.
What am I even saying and why does it sound so sexual?
“I mean, I know you can handle a stick.”
A stick.
Did I just say he could handle a stick?
What the heck would Freud say right now?
A deep chuckle rolls out of him, rich and low. “You doing okay, Rowyn?”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I respond.
He gives me a playful wink. “You will soon enough.”
I try to get my brain to work. “Okay, so yeah, baking…”
“What about it?”
“Oh. I was just thinking…after the playoffs, if Gina can’t find someone to help in the kitchen, maybe you could. That muffin you made…” I moan softly, making it sound like a tragedy and a revelation all at once. “So moist, so delicious. The best I’ve ever had. I don’t believe I’ve ever tasted a moister muffin. How do you get them so moist?”
He groans—loud, distracted, maybe just barely holding himself together. “Jesus…”
“What?”
“Stop talking about muffins,” he mutters, and the hungry growl in his voice makes my stomach flutter.
“Ohhh,” I say slowly, letting the realization hang in the air. “Muffin. Is that…a sexual thing?”
His eyes narrow, dark and calculating, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m being innocent or deliberately mischievous.
“Jesus, Rowyn.”
“Okay, sorry. No more moist muffin talk,” I murmur, a tiny smirk playing on my lips.
He shifts in his seat, one hand tightening around the wheel, and I can’t help but notice the subtle tension in his jaw, the way his throat swallows. He’s trying to be casual, but the heat radiating off him says otherwise.