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one to utter
those severely offensive words.
    I looked out the car window, still angry. We were almost to
my apartment.
    The driver dropped me off in front of the café, and I handed
him a bill without waiting for my change. Thankfully, the café was open on
Thursday nights, catering to the small crowd that wanted cocktails and a
late-night dinner closer to home than on the weekends. I had no intention of
even heading up to my apartment. I needed something to distract me.
    I didn’t bother changing, just set immediately to work,
furiously throwing flour and sugar and butter into the mixer and watching it
all come together. It was therapeutic, and took my mind off the things I so
desperately wanted to forget.
    I was in the middle of rolling out the dough for my cinnamon
rolls when I heard the squeak of the swinging door behind me. I barely paused,
not in the mood to make small talk with Darcy or any of the other girls working
that night. They knew better than to interrupt me when I was in a baking mood.
    Whoever came into the kitchen didn’t say anything, and for a
second I thought that they’d actually left. But then I felt it, heard his heavy
feet as he made his way closer to me. Collin was thin, tall, and lanky,
completely unassuming. Jackson was solid, nearly twice my size, and there was
no way I couldn’t feel his eyes on me.
    I slowed down my rolling, trying to rein in my breathing. I
wasn’t in the mood for anyone tonight, least of all the one man who affected me
like no other. But I couldn’t ignore him; I couldn’t help the shivers that ran
down my spine when I felt him come even nearer. I finally stopped my rolling
completely, but didn’t turn around. I closed my eyes, hoping for the second
time that night that I could maintain my composure, but for a much different
reason this time.
    “Can I help?” I heard his rough voice from behind me. It was
nothing like the voice I’d heard in all those movies I watched over the
weekend.
    I tensed, but finally looked over my shoulder to where he
stood. Even on my step stool, which I needed because I was too short to get enough
leverage to roll out my dough on the counter without it, he was still a full
foot taller than me.
    I didn’t move my gaze from his chest, almost afraid to look
him in the eye. But he didn’t force me to look at him, either. Eventually,
reluctantly, I nodded, and stepped down from the stool and into my high heels.
I stayed silent as I placed one flour-covered hand on my hip, stretching my
other out in front of me with the rolling pin. I finally took a chance and
looked up at his face, and saw a small, playful smile come across his lips. He
took the rolling pin from me and kicked the stool gently out of his way.
    “Don’t be too rough with it,” I said, leaning back against
the counter. “It needs to stay cold.”
    He worked for a few minutes in silence, concentration evident
on his face. I didn’t even bother trying to avert my eyes while he worked. Even
just rolling out the dough, I could see the muscles in his arms and shoulders
flexing. It did things to my insides that I didn’t expect. I’d never really
experienced anything like it before, that type of attraction. It made my heart
beat loudly, quickly, and for a second I was terrified that he could hear it in
the silence of the kitchen.
    “What are we making, anyway?” he asked, not taking his focus
away from the task at hand.
    “Cinnamon rolls. For the morning,” I said quietly, watching
his fluid, methodical movements. He made it look natural, simple, though
rolling out dough wasn’t exactly the easiest thing in the world when you weigh
a hundred pounds and had barely any muscle on your body.
    “Wow,” he said. “I’m impressed. Though I’m even more
impressed that you’re trusting me with them.”
    I finally cracked a smile at that one. I turned around
quickly, hoping he didn’t see, but I could still feel his eyes on me as I
pulled myself away from the counter and