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My breath catches.

For a moment, I forget the cake, the kitchen—everything—except how his mouth lingers just a second too long.

When he pulls back, there’s a slight smirk on his lips. “Tastes good,” he murmurs.

I exhale, feeling like I’ve just lost my footing in the best way. “The cake or me?” I ask, my voice softer than I intended.

He doesn’t answer.

Hedoesn’t have to.

The way he looks at me sayseverything.

20

NICOLAS

Every day, I uncover a new depth to my wife—something unexpected, somethingundiscovered. And the more I learn about her, the more Iwantto know.

Acharity?

I have a feeling I know why.

Aria has a good heart—I’ve seen that much already—so her wanting to help people isn’t surprising. But when she mentioned it, there was something else in her expression. A flicker of something raw, almost unspoken.

It’s like I couldreadher mind. She wants toatonefor what her family has done.

The scent of chocolate, sugar, and melted butter fills the air, rich and warm. But it’snotjust the scent.It’s her.

She stands beside me, leaning slightly over the bowl as she stirs the thick batter. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail that sways with each movement, and I can’t look away—the way her lips purse in concentration, the way her fingers move with quiet precision, like baking is second nature to her.

She wipes the back of her hand across her cheek, smearing flour across her skin without realizing it.

I fight the urge to reach out and brush it away.Just for an excuse to touch her again.

If I touch herone more timeand she gives me that reaction—the one that alwaysundoesme—we won’t finish baking this damn cake. And since Ididpromise to help her, I’m doing my best to behave.

This is why I’m standing here, stirring a mixer she handed me.Tryingto be good.

“Hand me the vanilla,” she says.

I grab the small bottle and place it in her hand, our fingers brushing—just briefly. But even that fleeting contact is electric.

Her eyes flick up, locking onto mine, and neither of us moves for a second. The air shifts, charged, crackling between us like a current we can’t control. Then, she clears her throat, returning to the batter, breaking the spell.

I wonder if we’ll ever go a full minute without feeling thatpull.

“Mixslower,” she says, placing her hand over mine on the wooden spoon. “You’re being too aggressive.”

I grunt inwardly at her proximity,at the warmth of her touch, and remind myself that finishing this cake will make her happy.

So, instead of grabbing her and spreading her legs on the table, I do what she asks.

I slow my movement.

“Didn’t know you were a control freak in the kitchen,” I murmur.

“I’m not.You’rejust bad at following instructions.”