Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 69945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
“I couldn’t be sure. I didn’t know what I’d gotten myself into. I’m not sure I do yet, but I’m glad you’re protecting me.”
I thought about the time I’d lain in bed incapacitated, barely aware of my surroundings. “I did a shit job of it today.”
“You can’t be at the top of your game every second.”
If only my world was that forgiving. “You’re wrong about that. It’s exactly what you have to do in my line of work.”
“Is your headache gone completely?”
“It is, which is interesting because it usually lingers much longer than this. I usually wake after taking the medication with still at least a dull throbbing that irritates me even if it doesn’t truly hurt.”
“But you’re all right now?”
“I am. Maybe you’re just that good of a nurse.”
“Maybe the massage helped. Or having someone care helped the tension go away quicker.”
I looked down at the dough I was stirring. I didn’t want to think about the implications of that.
“Tell me about what you’re making,” Corey said. He walked around the kitchen island and hopped up on the counter.
I frowned at him. “You can’t sit there.”
“I’m doing it, aren’t I? I mean, it’s pretty sturdy. I think it’ll hold me up.”
I growled. “You’re really trying my patience.”
“Come on, lighten up. It’s not going to hurt anything.”
It would be best to ignore his antics. “I’m making scones.”
“So you don’t confine yourself to Italian pastries?”
“I’m versatile.”
Corey raised a brow. “Are you now? That’s…surprising.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, and he laughed.
“So, tell me what’s in there.” He pointed at the bowl.
“Flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, and I’m working cold butter into it now.”
“With that?” He pointed at the pastry blender I was using.
“Yes. You’ve never used one?”
“At my best, I’m capable of making slice-and-bake cookies or brownies from a mix. That’s about the extent of my baking experience.”
At least he was eating better here. “I can teach you how to make cookies that would taste much better.”
“You’d teach me? Really?”
I probably shouldn’t have suggested that. I should try to distance myself from Corey, not find ways to bring us closer, but I wasn’t going to take back the offer. “Yes, come here. You can start your lessons now. Scones are fairly simple.”
Corey huffed. “I don’t think that’s true.”
“I’m the expert. Trust me.”
He looked up and caught my gaze. “I do.”
“Then get off the counter and come over here.”
He jumped down, stood beside me. I stepped back and moved to him until he was in front of the bowl, and I was behind him. I could feel the heat from his body, and I wanted to press even closer.
“Here.” I picked up the pastry blender. “Take this.” Corey wrapped his hand around the handle, and I put my hand on top of his.
He looked over his shoulder at me. “I can’t believe I ever thought you were ice cold.”
“My heart is. Remember that.”
“You’re wrong, but I won’t force you to admit that yet.” He turned back to look at the dough, and I showed him how to work the cutter in a rocking motion, slowly working the chunks of butter into the flour until it was a coarse meal.
“Now we add buttermilk and currants.”
“I’ve heard of currants, but I don’t think I’ve ever eaten one. I’m not even sure I’ve seen one.”
“They look like raisins, but smaller. See.” I opened a plastic bag and poured some into a measuring cup.
“Cool.” Corey reached out and popped a few in his mouth. “Not as sweet as raisins, but I can work with that.”
“Excellent,” I said. “Now add them to the mixture and pour in the milk.” He did as I said. “Now stir it together.”
As he started to stir, I fought the urge to put my hands on his hips and pull his body against mine. I wanted to feel him against me.
I couldn’t stop thinking about this morning when I was in such pain, the way he touched me so tenderly, the way it mattered to him that I was hurting, the way he wanted to fix it. When he’d worked my tense muscles with heavenly ease, I was in too much pain to do anything about it, but damn, if my head had not been pounding, I would have pounded him.
I kept my hands on the counter, enclosing his body, but not touching him.
“This doesn’t seem right,” he said. “I don’t think there’s enough liquid in here.”
“Just keep working it a little bit more with the fork, then we’ll turn it out and bring the dough together.”
“But it’s so dry. How’s it going to make a scone?”
“You’ll see. Trust me.”
He glanced over his shoulder and smiled. “Yes, sir.”
“Stir,” I ordered.
He focused on the dough again. When he’d gotten it a little more mixed, I took his hand. “That’s enough. Now tip the bowl and turn it out onto the counter on top of the flour.”