Chapter Ten
Sugar and Spice
Mitchell
I wake up feeling like I’ve been hit by a freight train driven by sexual frustration and poor life choices.
Last night was hell. Pure, unadulterated hell wrapped in soft cotton pajamas and the scent of Clare’s shampoo. Every time she shifted in that ridiculously small bed, every accidental brush of her leg against mine, every soft sigh she made in her sleep—it was like Chinese water torture designed specifically to drive me insane.
A cold shower would have been the way to go, but I couldn’t exactly handle my business in my childhood bathroom without making things infinitely weirder than they already were. So instead, I spent six hours staring at the ceiling, trying to think about hockey stats while Clare Johnson slept inches away from me, her body warm and trusting against my side.
By morning, when she’d somehow migrated to practically sleeping on my chest, her hair spread across my shoulder and one leg tangled with mine, I was ready to either spontaneously combust or do something monumentally stupid.
Like kiss her.
Like forget this whole thing was supposed to be fake.
I’d managed to slip out of bed before she woke up, but the image of her curled against me, peaceful and beautiful in the early morning light, is burned into my brain like a brand.
Now I’m standing in the kitchen doorway, watching her laugh with my grandmother over cookie dough, and I’m pretty sure I’m in serious trouble.
“You going to stand there all morning, or are you going to help?” Grandma June calls out, not even looking up from the mixing bowl. The woman has eyes in the back of her head, I swear.
“I’m supervising,” I say, padding into the kitchen in bare feet and yesterday’s T-shirt.
Clare glances up from where she’s helping Maddie roll out sugar cookie dough, a softness in her expression that hits me square in the chest. She looks... happy. Genuinely, unselfconsciously happy in a way I’ve never seen her at work. There’s flour on her cheek, and her hair’s pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she’s more beautiful than any woman has a right to be at eight in the morning.
“Supervising,” Mom says with a snort. “That’s what your father calls it when he hovers around my kitchen looking for handouts.”
“I don’t hover.”
“You’re hovering right now,” Clare points out, not looking up from her cookie cutting. But there’s a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth that does dangerous things to my self-control.
I move closer, ostensibly to inspect their work, but really because I’m drawn to her like a magnet. “Just making sure you’re doing it right.”
“Oh, we’re doing it right,” Grandma June says with a wicked grin that explains exactly where Maddie gets her troublemaking tendencies. “Your girlfriend’s got good hands.”
Clare’s cheeks flush pink, and I have to bite back a groan. Everything sounds like innuendo when you’ve spent the night in sexual purgatory.
“She does,” I agree, my voice coming out rougher than intended.
I lean over to examine the cookies she’s cutting, close enough to catch that clean, floral scent that’s been driving me crazy. She’s focused on her work, tongue peeking out slightly as she concentrates, and the sight sparks a low, possessive ache in my gut.
There’s a bowl of chocolate frosting sitting on the counter, and I can’t resist. I swipe my finger through it and pop it in my mouth, savoring the rich sweetness.
“Mitchell Alexander Drake,” Mom says, swatting at me with a dish towel. “You keep your fingers out of my frosting.”
“It’s quality control, Ma.”
Clare looks up at me, and for a moment our eyes meet. Without thinking, I reach out and brush the flour from her cheek with my thumb.
She goes very still under my touch, her lips parting slightly. The kitchen noise fades to background static as we stare at each other, caught in some magnetic pull I can’t begin to understand.
Then she flinches back, breaking the moment.
“Sorry,” she says quickly, turning back to her cookies. “I’m not—this is—”
“Hey.” I catch her hand gently, stopping her frantic cookie cutting. “You’re fine. We’re fine.”