Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 43375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 217(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 217(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
I wandered over to the opposite end of the counter. She didn’t notice me at first, so I leaned against it, arms crossed, just watching her. Soaking in the sight that I had missed more than I should after only forty-eight hours.
I wasn’t doing a damn thing to help like I normally did, too caught up in what I was feeling. I loved being near her. She grounded me. Even when she wasn’t looking at me, she felt like mine.
“Hey,” I said after a beat.
She startled, turning fast. When she saw it was me, she relaxed. Kind of. Her shoulders dropped a little, but her hands still held tight to the spray bottle and rag.
“You scared me.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to.” I pushed off the counter and came around to her side, stepping into her space.
She tensed for half a second, then let out a breath. “You’re back late.”
“Night game on the West Coast. We left right away, getting in around five, then I still had to get back to my place from Long Island.”
Her forehead puckered adorably when she frowned. “Did you sleep?”
“Yeah. I almost didn’t make it to my bed.” She giggled, and I let my eyes roam over her face, taking in the blush on her cheeks, her rosy lips, and soft hazel eyes. Fuck, she was cute like this. Except she looked beyond tired—even exhausted seemed like too tame a word to describe it. “You?”
She shrugged. “Not much.”
Frowning, I reached out and brushed my thumb along her cheek. Her breath caught, and her lashes fluttered. That did something to me. Everything about her did.
“You need someone to take care of you,” I murmured. “I want to take care of you.”
As I’d hoped, she softened rather than freezing up and pulling away.
We stood there for a moment, neither of us moving, the space between us thick with unspoken words and only thoughts of soft touches.
Finally, she opened her mouth to say something, but her gaze darted to the counter, and she frowned.
“Crap.” She reached for a spiral-bound notebook lying on the counter. “I didn’t mean to leave this out. I—”
She grabbed for it, but her elbow caught a tray, and the whole thing tipped. The notebook tumbled to the floor and landed open, pages splayed wide. She dove for it, but I was faster. Years of reflexes made sure of it.
I crouched and picked it up, my gaze scanning the page.
A blueberry crumb bar was sketched with soft pencil lines, shaded in like she’d spent hours perfecting the details. There were notes in the margins—ingredient tweaks, texture observations, baking temp tests. It looked like something out of a high-end culinary school.
I blinked. “You made this?”
She flushed. “It’s nothing.”
I turned the page. Another dessert. A cupcake, with flavor notes scribbled in neat handwriting. Cinnamon honey cake, fig filling, and whipped mascarpone topping.
Flipping through the notebook, I found mini pies. A lemon lavender shortbread. Chai sugar cookies with browned butter icing. Pages and pages of hand-sketched designs, notes, test batches, and flavor combinations.
“You came up with all of these?” I asked, still stunned.
She shifted on her feet. “I play with recipes when I have time. It’s just a hobby.”
I looked up at her. “Baby…”
Her eyes darted away. “Don’t make a big deal about it.”
On the next page was a title in bold block letters across the top.
Sideline Bars. A sweet pastry with a buttery crumble on top, apple-cinnamon filling, and a honey glaze.
I read every line. Burned it into my head. My brain didn’t forget shit, and I knew without a doubt I’d need to remember every damn detail of this.
“This isn’t a hobby. This is talent.”
She reached for the notebook again. I didn’t let her take it.
“I’m serious.” I straightened slowly, keeping my eyes on hers. “I own a restaurant, Rylin. We had help, but Raiden and I created every dish on our menu. I know food. This isn’t something you hide in the back of a drawer.”
Her cheeks went red, and she shook her head, trying to brush off my compliment. “I’ve never really shown anyone. I don’t even know what I’d do with it. It’s just for fun.”
My eyes never left her face, seeing through her facade to the passion beneath. “Do you bake these? Or just come up with the recipes?”
“Both.” She shrugged. “I like testing things out. But I don’t have the right equipment or—”
“I can get you the right equipment,” I cut in. “But that’s not really what you need. You need the right audience. The right launchpad.”
She blinked, her head canting to the side. “What are you talking about?”
Gently, I closed the notebook and held it between us. “This is your future, baby. And I want to help you build it.”
Her breath hitched. “Micah…”
I pressed the notebook back into her hands, hoping it would help her feel more in control of the situation. “I don’t want to pressure you. It just…kills me to think about you hiding this like it’s not fucking brilliant.”