We exchange looks. Mine, puzzled and struggling to follow her meaning.

Baking? She wants me to bake her something?

She waves off my confusion. “Never mind. Dylan’s been put on bedrest for the next two weeks until she delivers, which isn’t a huge deal, except for the fact that we have this freaking wedding next weekend and now I’m in charge of making the cake.” She lifts a piece of paper off the counter and holds it between us. “And it’s covered in flowers. Covered, Mason, like all over the damn thing. Look. She doesn’t even want a cake topper. I have to put flowers up there too. Like this.” Setting the paper down, she flips through the binder on the counter and stops on a picture of a cake, jabbing her finger at it. “See? Look at these little fuckers. This is what I have to make.”

I lean over the binder to examine the picture.

Looks pretty standard for a wedding cake. I think my sister had one similar at hers a few years back.

“All right. And this particular design gets you upset?”

“I can’t do it.” Brooke slams the binder closed. Her head lowers. “I can’t make flowers look like that. And there’s so many of them. The bride wants them to be the focus of her cake, and I’m worried I’m going to screw it up and ruin everything.”

She looks away and bites at her lip. Her fingers knot together on the counter.

Hmm. This is new. Brooke’s normally so proud of her work. She practically glows when she’s handing off her treats to me or discussing her day and what all she created. It’s one of the things I love most about her. Her passion. I’m not accustomed to seeing any lack of confidence in this woman. Not with her career or anything else.

She’s really worried she’ll fail at this.

I reach for her, tugging at her hand and pulling her close. I want Brooke in my arms so bad but my shirt is soaked with sweat and she looks so damn pretty right now. I’d hate to ruin her clothes.

“I’m sure you’ll do fantastic, Brooke,” I say, tipping her chin up, our bodies barely touching.

She blinks up at me. Her eyes reddened from her tears. Her cheeks blooming with color again.

“I’m so stressed out about this. Making a cake like that on my own is going to be nerve wracking enough. I told you, I don’t do those. That’s all Dylan.”

“But you can do them. You don’t but you can. I believe you can.” I run my finger along her jaw. “Don’t doubt yourself. You might be better at this than Dylan. Who knows?”

“It has to be perfect, Mason. I’ll see the look on the bride’s face when I deliver it, and if she hates it I’ll never forgive myself.”

“So, make it perfect.”

Her shoulders drop. Her brows pull together.

Damn, she’s adorable in her confusion. That cute little wrinkle in her nose kills me.

Smiling, I bend to kiss her forehead. “You can practice on those little fuckers, yeah?” I ask quietly. “The flowers, I mean.”

A laugh bubbles in her throat and bursts from her lips. She flattens her hand to my chest. “Yes. I can practice on them. I’m assembling the whole cake this weekend to see if I can do it. I just wish those little fuckers weren’t on it.”

She seems to relax a bit more, giving me an easy smile, touching the hem of my shirt and exploring my skin underneath with tentative fingers.

“Well, there you go. Work at it until you’re happy. What you deliver next weekend will be exactly what this woman is asking for. You’ll impress her, I bet.”

“You seem so sure.”

“I am sure.”

My confidence in Brooke is unwavering. There’s no doubt in my mind she will create something beyond what she thinks she is capable of. I’ve seen her work. I know how dedicated she is to this job. How driven. She will perfect this cake until she can make it in her sleep, but right now, she’s crippled by her own insecurity. Blinded by it. Always letting that little voice inside her head speak louder than it ever should.

“You can do this.”

She stares up at me, looking at my eyes, my mouth, and finally lowering her gaze to my neck. She wets her lips and swallows hard.

“I just don’t want to disappoint anyone.”

She looks so sad. So small.

Fuck, I want to hold her. Why did I have to make it so goddamn hot in that studio?

I squeeze her hips, hoping this small touch will give her some comfort.

“I know you don’t. You care, Brooke. And that’s why you’re going to do something amazing. Just breathe a little, yeah? Try not to worry so much.”

Her mouth tics—the hint of a smile. Letting her eyes slip closed, she takes in a deep breath, filling her lungs to capacity before releasing it slowly through her nose. She seems to slide closer.

“Better?” I ask, moving my thumb over her jeans.

She nods, her hands moving around my waist as she stares at my chest. “You know this means I’ll be tied up all weekend except for the dinner. We won’t really see each other.”

I dismiss her underlying apology. “No worries. I have a few classes to teach. I’ll just be across the street for distractions and words of encouragement, if needed.”

“Yeah.” Her voice comes out quiet and swift. She tugs at my shorts, her nails scrapping across my skin. “Mason?”

“Mm?”

She looks up. I recognize the shift in her eyes. Desire.

With her small, very capable hands, she glides up my arms, slowly, squeezing my muscles and wrapping her grip around my neck. Our bodies press together.

She doesn’t mind my appearance?

“You’re all sweaty and sweet. Just like last night,” she whispers, standing on her toes to kiss me, crushing her perfect tits to my chest.

Jesus.

“Do you really think I can do this?”

I moan when she rubs her hip against my slowly hardening length. My hands rest on her waist. “Are we still talking about cakes?”

“Yes.” She smiles against my mouth. “What else would we be talking about?”

“You’re touching my cock. I have no idea what we’re talking about anymore.”

Laughing, she twists and brushes against me again.

“Baby,” I moan. “I need to go.”

“And I need to come.”

Ah, fuck.

I groan and suck on her tongue a little, touching her arse, feeling my reserve and all responsibility for the business I own fading to nothing.

Maybe I can make this quick? Maybe my attendees will understand my weakness for this woman and wait me out?

Maybe I don’t need to make this quick?

With a soft moan, Brooke pulls away so it’s only her hands on my hips and nothing else. She looks up, a softness pooling in her eyes.

“Thank you for coming over and talking to me. I’m sorry I worried you with my text. I wasn’t thinking.”

Christ, that text. I nearly got run over by a delivery truck sprinting over here like I did.

I frown. “It’s fine.”

“I’m with you.” She touches my face.

My breath catches in my chest. Brooke. I lean into her hand, my throat tightening as I try to swallow. “Yeah.”

“I’m with you, Mason,” she slowly repeats, her lip trembling, tears brimming her eyes again, but her voice so fucking sure it shatters any wall or shield she ever put up between us. Obliterating every hesitation and uncertainty. Every whispering doubt in my ear.

Gone. She’s mine, and I am so fucking hers I don’t remember the person I was before this.

“Baby.” I crush her against me, kissing her, giving her my racing heart and my urgent touch and every breath I will ever take. “With you,” I tell her.

She nods and breaks away to kiss my jaw and my cheek, pressing her lips all over my face.

We embrace each other, just holding, until our bodies steady and the pressing urge to touch and kiss and fuck lessens to a sufferable longing.

“Okay,” Brooke whispers against my mouth. “Go, before you lose half your class.”

“I don’t care.”

“Mason,” she laughs, kissing me hard and then with a firm hand, pushing against my shoulder, shoving me in the direction of the door. She gives me an incredulous look.