Page 44 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)
The kitchen continues to heat up, and it has nothing to do with the ovens.
Every accidental brush of fingers when we reach for the same tool.
Every moment when he leans close to check my technique.
Every time our eyes meet across the flour-dusted workspace.
The air between us is practically crackling with unresolved tension.
"You're doing this wrong," I announce when he starts crimping the edge of his latest creation.
"Excuse me?" he says, raising an eyebrow. "I've been making pies since before you knew the difference between a rolling pin and a baseball bat."
"Your crimps are too small," I insist, trying not to grin. "Look, they should be bigger, more dramatic. Like this."
I reach across him to demonstrate, deliberately pressing closer than necessary. My breast brushes against his arm, and I feel him go very still.
"See?" I say, proud of my handiwork. "Much better."
"Juniper," he says, his voice carefully controlled. "What are you doing?"
"Making pies," I say innocently. "Isn't that what we're here for?"
But then I make the mistake of looking up at him.
And the heat in his eyes nearly stops my heart.
"You're playing with fire," he warns softly.
"Good thing you're here to put it out," I reply, then deliberately drag my finger through a bowl of berry filling and lick it clean.
His jaw clenches.
His hands fist at his sides.
And something wild and reckless unfurls in my chest.
"That's it," he growls.
And then all hell breaks loose.
He grabs a handful of flour and tosses it at me with pinpoint accuracy, hitting me square in the chest and sending up a cloud of white powder.
"Beckett Ford!" I shriek, retaliating with a handful of berry filling that lands on his shoulder with a satisfying splat.
And just like that, we're in an all-out food fight.
Flour flying through the air like snow.
Berry juice painting abstract patterns on white aprons.
Both of us laughing and shrieking and making an absolute disaster of his pristine kitchen.
I duck behind the central island, using it as cover while I reload with more ammunition. But Beckett is faster and more strategic, circling around to flank me from the side.
"Surrender," he demands, advancing on me with a bowl of pie filling held like a weapon. "Before this gets even messier."
"Never!" I declare, launching myself at him with a handful of flour.
We collide in a tangle of limbs and laughter.
And then suddenly, we're not laughing anymore.
Because he's pinned me against the counter, his large hands braced on either side of my hips, his body caging me in completely.
Our faces are inches apart.
Both of us breathing hard from exertion and something much more dangerous.
Flour dusts his dark hair, making him look younger, more playful than I've ever seen him.
But his eyes are pure heat, focused on my mouth with laser intensity.
"Juniper," he says, my name rough and wanting on his lips.
And then he's kissing me.
Hard and desperate and with ten years of pent-up longing behind it.
His mouth moves against mine with devastating skill, his tongue tracing the seam of my lips until I open for him with a soft gasp.
I can taste flour and sweetness and something that's purely him.
My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, needing more contact, more pressure, more everything.
He responds by pressing his hips against mine, letting me feel exactly what this is doing to him. The hard length of his erection grinds against my center, making me moan into his mouth.
"Fuck," he breathes against my lips. "Juniper, I?—"
But whatever he was going to say is cut off by the sound of Ray's voice from the front of the bakery.
"Beck! Where the hell are you? The afternoon rush is starting and I need help with the register!"
Reality crashes back like cold water.
We're in his workplace.
Making out like teenagers while covered in flour and berry juice.
With his employee calling for him just one room away.
Beckett pulls back immediately, running a hand through his flour-dusted hair and taking several steps back to put space between us.
"I have to—" he starts, gesturing toward the front of the bakery.
"Go," I say quickly, trying to catch my breath and smooth down my hair. "I'll clean up here."
He nods, but doesn't move. Just stands there looking at me with such intensity that I feel like he's memorizing every detail.
"This isn't over," he says finally.
It sounds like a promise.
Or a threat.
Maybe both.
"Rain check on the private cooking lesson?" I ask, proud of how steady my voice sounds despite the fact that my entire body is still thrumming with unfulfilled desire.
His smile is slow and devastating.
"Absolutely. Though next time, we're doing it somewhere Ray can't interrupt."
He starts to head toward the front of the bakery, then pauses in the doorway.
"Oh, and Juniper?" He turns back to look at me, his eyes dancing with mischief and something darker. "I'm not going to let Wes keep one-upping me."
And then he's gone, leaving me standing in his flour-covered kitchen with the taste of him still on my lips and the sudden, shocking realization that he knows.
He knows about the alley behind the veterinary clinic.
He knows about whatever happened with Callum in the rain.
He knows we've all been making moves, and he's determined not to be left behind.
The thought should probably concern me.
Instead, it sends a thrill of anticipation through my entire body.
Because if all three of them are going to compete for my attention?
This is going to get very interesting very quickly.