Tessa’s love of baking started when she was young. It was one answer, among many, she’d given countless times to explain why she did it, when she’d started, how she’d come to love it.

It had nothing to do with her upbringing. At least, not in the way that some children learned to love the kitchen at a parent’s side, mini-apron tied around a little body, small hands mimicking the movements of older, more practiced ones.

She didn’t have a well-worn book filled with secret family recipes. She didn’t have a father who showed her the advantage of being patient, watching yeast bloom and dough rise over many hours. She didn’t have a mother who her let lick the bowl of icing after decorating a cake. In fact, Tessa was painfully aware that her mother had no clue where to find a bowl in her parents’ glossy, pristine kitchen, let alone what to put in it to make icing.

For Tessa, baking was the antidote to her upbringing: warm and comforting and a little bit messy. Nothing like the chilly, reserved, and perennially tidy world her parents cultivated in their Upper West Side apartment.

She’d gotten a first taste of it at a childhood friend’s house. Shannon’s mom had produced a tray of fresh, just-cooled cookies and told the girls to roll up their sleeves. They were going to decorate. The hours that followed had been filled with sticky fingers, lips stained food-coloring blue, and cookie crumbs down their shirts.

It had been perfect—absolute heaven!—until Tessa’s mom had yelled at her for making their housekeeper change her bed sheets out of schedule because of the crumbs pushed down into the crevices, evidence of a midnight snack she’d enjoyed under the cover of her cashmere quilt. Her mom hadn’t been worried about their housekeeper. She was just pissed that something had fallen out of order, that Tessa had broken a rule. Her parents and their rules.

Just look where they are now….

Tessa peeked through the oven’s glass door before checking her watch one last time. Tristan was already ten minutes late. Another five and dinner would be a bust. Literally.

She had her head in the fridge, one arm jammed all the way to the back to grab the wine she’d tucked away, when she heard a chair scrape behind her.

“You made it.”

Tristan was in the same seat he’d used the last time he’d eaten in the kitchen. His dark hair was swept off his face, the long, sleek strands skimming the back of his collar. The top few buttons on his black shirt were open, exposing the hollow between his clavicles.

What would it be like to taste him, just there…? What is it about seeing him in your kitchen that makes you ravenous?

Tessa tightened her grip on the bottle. Friendly thoughts, Tessa. That was definitely not a friendly thought.

“I did.” He’d folded his hands on the counter and his sleeves were rolled up to reveal the defined ropes of muscle on his forearms. Tessa’s eyes tracked the intricate web of veins that spanned those arms and traced the top of his hands. Their latent strength had her itching to touch, and wondering what it would feel like if they touched her.

SOUFFLÉ! her brain shouted. Tonight was not about objectifying the solemn man in front of her. It was about dinner. And trying to coax him out of his shell a little bit. It was not about fantasizing about him putting those hands to significantly more explicit work.

“You’re just in time. I was getting worried.” Tessa hit the button on the timer a second before it went off, and the oven released a cloud of heat as she removed their dinner.

“That smells amazing.”

“Thank you.” She set the dish on the counter before coming around to take the seat diagonal from him. She scooped a large portion onto his plate, followed by a healthy side of sautéed asparagus.

Despite his praise just a moment before, Tristan looked, well, deflated.

“Something the matter?”

“No,” he answered quickly. “Was just expecting…more.”

“Oh, there’s more.” Tessa grinned. “You just have to eat your vegetables first.”

Tristan picked up his fork and pushed the asparagus around his plate. “I think I was wrong. This really was a bad idea.”

Tessa jerked up, the soufflé like ash in her mouth, until he she saw the corners of his eyes crinkle ever so slightly. It wasn’t a smile, but it was enough to know that he was teasing her. And, damn, if it didn’t make Tessa suddenly lose her appetite.

“Just eat,” she muttered.

They ate in comfortable silence, through another helping of cheese soufflé for Tristan, and a few forkfuls of asparagus off his plate for Tessa.  

She was about to clear their dishes when Tristan jumped up and took them to the sink. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I do,” he answered. “That’s the rule, right? You cook, I clean.”

She hopped off her stool. “Or I clean, you cook. It’s less about who does what and more about division of labor.”

“That sounds very official.” Tristan ran the water until steam billowed up from the sink.

“Just kitchen rules. Keeps everyone friendly.”

“Friendly.” Tristan said it like he was testing each syllable, deciding how he liked the taste on his tongue.

“Yes. And, speaking of being friendly, I have a project I’d like your help with.”

Tristan slotted the plates into the drying rack and turned towards her, a question on his face.

“Don’t look so worried. You’re going to have fun.”

“Am I?”

Tessa wanted to laugh at how uncertain he sounded, but didn’t think it would be fair. Especially given what he was wearing. And what they were about to do. Instead, she picked up two neatly-folded aprons off the counter and tossed one at him. He grabbed it from the air before it hit him in the chest. “You’re gonna want to put that on.”

Tristan watched her tie hers around her waist before doing the same with his own. Tessa felt his eyes follow her as she moved around the kitchen, studying every move she made. She let the silence drag as she got everything into place. Finished, she leaned against the counter and smiled wide.

“Come. No time to waste.”

“What is that?” Tristan pointed at the large metal bowl draped with a kitchen towel that Tessa had pulled from an unused oven.

“Dough.”

“Like, for bread?”

“Exactly like.”

“What are we going to do with it?” Tristan stood behind her and eyed the pale mass that Tessa pulled from the greased bowl and dumped on the flour-dusted counter.

“Tristan,” she spat out with a laugh. “What do you think we’re doing with it? We’re making bread.”

His chest was so close to her back she felt him humph.

“I don’t remember kitchen labor being a prerequisite for our date.”

Tessa froze, her fingers half-sunk into the spongy mass. “And I don’t remember calling this a date.”

Tristan backed up fast, a cool gush of air fanning across her neck in his absence. “I just mean—” he stumbled.

Why did the nerves in his voice make her want to turn around and wrap her arms around him? This man was an enigma. Distant and dark one second, flustered and, well, only a little bit less dark the next.

Doesn’t matter, Tessa. You’re not here to think about climbing up the hulking man. You’re here to help distract him, even just a little from whatever weight has him curled so tight he might crack right here on your nice, clean floor.   

“Don’t worry about it. Just come here.” She patted the spot next to her, dislodging a small cloud of flour into the air.

Tessa portioned out the dough into four equal sections. She placed one in front of Tristan, a second in front of herself, and draped the remaining two in the towel.

“Hands,” she demanded, holding hers palm up so he’d know what to do. After a split-second hesitation, Tristan mirrored her. Careful not to linger, she pulled them above the counter and dusted his wide palms and long fingers with flour. She wasn’t trying to study them, hadn’t planned on cataloguing the span from pinky to thumb, or the elegant curve each finger made, reaching up from pronounced calluses. His swept-back hair and freshly-pressed shirt made him look polished, but his hands told a different story. A rugged one. They told her that he knew how to work the body he kept so carefully controlled. Whether pulling himself through the ocean waves or helping the crew haul support beams into place, his hands knew what it was to work.

Just think what they’d be like working you….

Tessa shook the flour a little too hard and some blew up into her face. She coughed, waving it away. When it cleared, she found Tristan giving her an odd look.

“I’m fine,” she sputtered before pulling his hands to the dough. “Let’s get started.”

Tristan looked at the dough, then at her, then back at the dough, the groove between his eyes sharpening. “What am I supposed to do with it?”

“Knead it.”

Tristan stared a little harder at his hands. “Knead it?” His voice was tighter, too.

“Watch.” Palms down, she used the heels of her hands to push the soft mass forward, curling her fingers around the top and turning the whole thing slightly before bringing the elongated ball towards her and starting the process over. Tessa could feel Tristan watching her. She glanced up and found him completely focused on her hands, memorizing each movement.

His hand, the one closest to her, flexed. She’d seen him do that before he pressed it to the back of his neck. This time, though, he brought it, then the other, to his ball of dough and started working it.

His first few attempts were clumsy. He pushed down too hard and the dough jumped forward, the flour spraying backwards onto his waist. He dug his fingers too deep and the spongy material squelched up between them. He groaned when it stuck to his skin and Tessa giggled as she helped him pull it free.

The giggling stopped when he studied her face, his eyes sweeping from her hairline down to her chin, then back up to watch her lips as she applied another dusting of flour to his hands.

“Try again,” she instructed, her voice not as steady as she would’ve liked.

His next two tries were much better. After a few more laughs from her, and a few more grunts from him, Tristan was getting closer. But it wasn’t quite right.

When he growled in frustration, Tessa stopped him, placing her fingers on top of his. “Not quite so hard,” she explained. She pulled out a new ball of dough, one that hadn’t been kneaded into a tough, floury mess. “Do it with me.”

His hands were twice the size of hers, but she felt them go lax beneath her touch, waiting for her to guide him.

Slowly, she pressed her palms down, sinking his hands into the dough. They moved forward, gently, the slide soft but not too light.

“That’s it,” she murmured. “You don’t want to be too hard, it makes the dough tough. But if you’re too soft, you don’t get the right effect.”

“The right effect?” Tristan’s breath tickled the side of her face, warm and tempting with just a hint of wine.

“Yes,” she breathed out, pulling their joint grip back to start again. “We’re working the proteins together. Tangling them up.”

The fingers on one of Tessa’s hands slipped between Tristan’s, getting caught between the long stretch of his and the dough beneath.

She thought he might have said something. Thought she felt it where his chest was pressed against her side. But there was no way she was going to look at him to find out. Not when his face was so close to hers.

Together, they folded their fingers around the top of the dough, spread it out and worked it back, the surface becoming smoother and smoother after every pass. Somehow, on the next push, one of Tessa’s hands ended up completely beneath Tristan's.

He pushed down, gentle but firm, his calluses causing sharp jolts of energy to jump from her knuckles to her shoulders, then lower, settling in her breasts. Tessa took a deep breath, hoping it would help the tightness where her nipples pressed against her bra.

It only made it worse.

“The tangling,” Tristan prompted, his voice little more than a groan, his eyes locked on the joint movement of their hands. “What does that do?”

“It—” Tessa stopped talking, helpless to do anything but watch as Tristan moved so that now both her hands were caught between his and the dough. The contrast had her body humming. The soft give and slide beneath, the rough yet gentle pressure of his hot skin above. It took a second before she realized he’d stopped moving, their intertwined fingers frozen as he waited for her to respond. “It stretches the dough out, smoothing it.” Push forward, curl. “Allows air in.” Pull back, press, push again.

Tristan turned so his nose brushed her cheek, his lips grazing her ear before he whispered, “Then what happens?”

Tessa’s fingers flexed and Tristan’s followed, then spanned wide, holding her still. A sensation raced through Tessa, her limbs loosening as if it was her muscles they’d been kneading, her body they’d been coaxing into submission. Her head was heavy, her neck too relaxed to hold it up. It was tipping back, her eyes falling shut, as she managed to drag out the answer. “If you’ve done it right, it will rise.”

And, damn, had it.

Tristan shifted beside her, his front coming flush to her side, the long, hard length of his erection digging into her waist as he placed an open-mouthed kiss beneath her ear.

Tessa was completely caught. He kept her hands locked against the counter, the mess of flour and dough long forgotten, her arms useless as she molded herself against him. She was wearing her comfy work shoes and he was so tall beside her, his large frame curling around hers.

Tristan bent his knees, his mouth never leaving her skin.

She’d been right. He was starving.

Tessa’s jaw fell open, a rush of air escaping as his lips worked a heated trail from the sensitive skin behind her ear down to where the base of her throat was exposed by her shirt.

Tristan spread his legs wide, one strong thigh pressing against her ass, the other pushing against the front of her hip. His cock was a pulsing heat against the soft curve of her side.

“Jesus.” Tristan broke away long enough to swear against her skin, his tongue swiping a path towards her jaw. “I knew you smelled unreal. But I never thought….” Tristan’s teeth caught the skin of her chin.

Tessa’s lips burned, her tongue restless, the desire to feel the heavy flick of his enough to make her want to scream.

Tristan’s fingers curled between hers, his nails cutting through the dough to bite lightly at the inside of her palms. The top of his left arm was caught between them. Tessa pressed her breast against his tense tricep, the friction catching her nipples and sending sharper, more exquisite heat to the place between her thighs.

They were twisted, tangled, parts pressed together where they didn’t quite fit. And Tessa hadn’t felt anything so right, so mind-bendingly perfect in her entire life.

Tristan’s mouth caught the corner of hers, tickling her skin as he confessed, “I had no idea it was possible for anything to taste this good.”

“Tristan.” Tessa let his name slip out, hot and hungry. And loud enough that it startled him out of their lust-laden haze.

“Fuck!” He jumped back so fast she almost fell. She would have if her hands hadn’t practically been glued to the counter by the tacky dough.

Tristan backed into the corner before Tessa realized what was happening. He’d ripped the apron off, streaks of flour and dough cutting across his chest like claw marks, the jagged lines no more white than his neck, which rippled as he tried to force down air.

All of Tessa’s arousal fled her body when she saw Tristan’s face.

Terrified didn’t begin to cover it.

She’d never seen him so pale or his eyes so flat. His hands were locked around the counter on either side of him, a tremor working its way up his arms, along his spine, and down his legs in great waves.

The man who’d been kissing her, who’d been about to consume her, was gone. In his place was something as close to a skittish, wild animal as Tessa had ever seen.

“Tristan,” she said slowly as she took a step towards him, her dough-caked hands held out in front of her.

“Tessa. No.” They were more grunts than words, but Tessa understood enough to stop.

“Tristan?” Her voice wobbled that time, her throat closing up. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes as she watched him fight to keep himself in one piece. All by himself. Refusing to let her get close enough to help.

“No.” He shook his head so violently his hair flew forward, the thick black locks jarring where they covered his face.

His beautiful, haunted face that held no semblance of the man he’d been just moments ago.

“Please,” she whispered, taking one more tentative step forward.

“No. Never.”

Tessa blinked and he was gone.