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“You’re standing here, doing nothing. Make yourself useful. Grab that little container of meringue powder.”

I have no idea what meringue powder is, nor did I have any urge to help with baking this or any other morning, yet I find myself instantly responding to Willa’s bossy tone. The meringue powder isn’t hard to locate; it’s in a small white container near the stand mixer Willa is dumping her sugar into. I move next to her, our arms nearly brushing, and hold it out.

When she takes the container from me, a light dusting of powdered sugar covers the lapels of my suit. Frowning, Willa tries to brush them away, only making it worse.

“I’m messing up your nice suit,” she says, dismayed.

“It’s fine. I have more suits.”

But Willa is already untying the apron strings at her back, and before I can protest, she pulls it off. Standing on tiptoes, she tries to drop it over my head but can’t reach.

“You’re a giant,” she says with a giggle. “Duck down.”

Again with that bossy tone. No one speaks to me like this, not even Bellamy, and I find I really like it. At least, coming from her. It makes no logical sense, and yet I find myself obeying her order.

I dip my head, and Willa drops the loop around my neck. “There.”

Her gaze flicks to mine, and only then does she seem to realize how close our faces are. There’s the smallest intake of breath, a tiny gasp, but Willa doesn’t move away. Neither do I. Instead, she leans in and reaches around my waist.

I stop breathing.

For a moment, I think it’s my second hug in twenty-four hours, though this is nothing like Galentine’s embrace. Willa’s cheek presses to my chest and her arms link around my lower back. My muscles tense like over-coiled springs as the scent of her—sugary almond and vanilla—hit my bloodstream like a drug. I swear, I can feel my pupils dilating.

Should I … hug her back? Do I put my arms around her back or her waist or?—

It is at this humiliating moment I realize she’s simply tying the apron strings.

“There we go.” She takes a step back and pats my chest, now covered by a pink, frilly apron. Unaware of how impacted I am by her proximity or my embarrassment for thinking she was hugging me, Willa grins. “I like your business attire, but this suits you.”

“Does it?” My voice sounds rougher than usual, a low growl.

Willa runs her hand over a ridge of ruffles along the top of the apron. She’s not making contact with any part of my skin, yet I feel her touch everywhere.

“Not every man can pull this off, you know. Consider yourself lucky. Now.” Her brisk, businesslike tone returns. “Hand me a clean tablespoon. I need to finish this batch of icing.”

Before I can discern which of the half-dozen measuring spoons is the correct one, the kitchen door swings open.

“Well, good morning!” Bellamy strides into the kitchen, grinning when he sees me standing next to Willa, wearing her apron. “Isn’t this a delightful surprise. Nice to see you again, Willa. Good morning, Archer.”

I am caught, a boy elbow-deep in the cookie jar. Or a man who has better things to do than search for a tablespoon while wearing a pink apron.

“Archer is helping me make royal icing,” Willa says. “I’ll give you a job too, if you’d like one.”

Bellamy waves her off. “I won’t get in the way. Too many cooks in the kitchen and all that. I’ll happily watch.”

I’m keenly aware of Bellamy watching, a smirk on his face. I pointedly ignore him as Willa directs me to add six tablespoons of meringue powder to the stand mixer. She finishes up withwater, then attaches a clear plastic shield to the top and turns on the mixer.

“You didn’t measure the water,” I say, hoping my tone comes across how I intend, which is curious, not critical. But with the powdered sugar and meringue powder, she insisted on things being precise. For water, she used a larger measuring cup with a handle and didn’t use it all.

Willa lightly—but very intentionally—steps on my toe before beaming up at me. She explains that royal icing is tricky and there are different consistencies she needs depending on if she’s flooding or piping. I have no idea what the terms she’s using actually mean, but find myself listening raptly anyway, my attention darting between her eyes and her mouth.

“You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?” Willa asks, mouth slightly upturned.

“I … no.”

But I’m intrigued all the same. More interested than I’ve ever been in cookies, which I rarely eat. Though it’s the baker, not the baked goods, who has me standing here in a frilly pink apron, playing sous chef.

I’ve forgotten Bellamy is in the room at all until he says, “Did you see these, Archer? Wow, they are exquisite, Willa. Well done.”