Page 62 of The Defender

“It’s okay.”

“How was the episode?”

“Good.”

Okay then. I ignored the sudden chasm in my stomach and put on a bright smile. “Perfect. In the spirit ofBake Off, let’s make pancakes. The healthy version,” I amended. “You can’t go through life scared of a breakfast item.”

Vincent slanted a glance in my direction. “I’m not scared of pancakes. I’ll eat them. I just don’t want to make them.” But he didn’t argue when I sent him to fetch the rest of the ingredients. I was using the recipe for my favorite protein pancakes, which were healthier than the regular stuff.

“Perfect. Let’s mix it all together,” I said when we had everything lined up on the counter.

“You know we could’ve gone down to the breakfast place around the corner and saved ourselves the trouble?”

“That would’ve taken at least an hour. This’ll take minutes.”

Vincent shook his head. Despite his grumbling, he’d removed his jacket and was mixing the ingredients with surprising dexterity. His arm muscles flexed with each movement, and I had to avert my eyes before he caught me staring.

I busied myself with the skillet, cleaning it and heating it over medium heat. A cloud of warmth gusted over my face.

“Done,” he said.

“Good.” I cleared my throat. “Now add the coconut oil to the pan. Once it’s hot, swirl it around to coat the bottom…”

He worked in silence, his movements deft and graceful despite his insistence that he wasn’t good in the kitchen. Pancakes were easy, but there was something mesmerizing about the way he worked.

“Then you spoon the batter into the skillet like this.” I stepped in to demonstrate. “Don’t use more than a quarter cup per pancake.”

“Got it.” Vincent’s voice rumbled close to my ear.

Tingles cascaded down my spine, and I focused intently on the stove instead of the warm, solid presence at my back. Despitehis reassurance, I ladled out the next two pancakes myself while he watched.

The only sounds in the kitchen were the soft exhales of our breaths and the sizzle of batter in the pan. He was so close that, if I turned my head an inch, his skin would graze mine.

“Brooklyn.” He reached around me and grasped my wrist, his hold gentle but firm. “I’ve got it.”

The tingles spread up my arms.

I quickly relinquished the wooden spatula to him and stepped aside. “Great. Cook them for, um, two to three minutes on each side or until small bubbles appear.”

Vincent made a noise of acknowledgment. While heat scorched my face, he appeared coolly unperturbed by our proximity.

This was supposed to be my attempt at winning the bet, but I couldn’t remember why, exactly, I’d chosen this stupid strategy. I should’ve stuck with the basics and worn my football shirt again.

He finished the first batch and moved them onto a plate.

I tested out a bite. “Delicious. See? Youcando this without a visit from the firefighters.”

A smirk flickered over his mouth, but he didn’t respond as he started the next batch of pancakes.

My smile faded. Something was definitely off. He hadn’t tried to flirt with me, he was barely holding up his end of the conversation, and although he’d stayed to make the pancakes, there was an aloofness to him that made the pit in my stomach widen.

I was so used to his warmth that I hadn’t realized how much I’d miss it when it was gone.

“I really was working on my application last night,” I said, trying to gauge his reaction. “I put my phone away so I could focus.”

“You said that already.”

“Sure.” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “But you seem like you’re mad at me, so I want to make sure it isn’t because I didn’t text you back.”