Page 11 of Screwed
“Fuck no.” He sighed heavily. Much as he hated the idea of someone inflicting pain on her soft skin, he knew he couldn’t stop her. “Okay, if you’re really going to do this, I’ll call the place I go and make an appointment for you. I’ll take you there, but you won’t be able to get in today.”
She smiled. “Okay.”
He swallowed a groan. Jesus. He was supposed to be stayingawayfrom her.
Callie touched a paper napkin daintily to her lips, then dropped it to the empty container, having devoured the chicken and biscuits. “Okay. I have cookies and cakes to bake.”
“What are you making them for?”
She tossed her takeout container into the trash. “Mama’s birthday party tomorrow.”
“Uh, is it a big party? How many cakes do you need?”
“Well, just one. But I felt like baking.”
“You always feel like baking.”
A smile touched her lips. “True.”
“It’s a wonder you don’t weigh three hundred pounds.” Her slight curves were perfect, but even if she did put on weight from her baking, she’d still be gorgeous.
One corner of her mouth lifted. “Everything in moderation, as Grandma Sutherland always says.”
“That’s not what you were saying last night.”
“Quit teasing me about getting drunk! I’m fine now.” She lifted her chin and moved toward the big mixer.
“Need any help?” Christ. Why was he even asking that? She didn’t need his help, and he had no clue how to bake cookies. Also, he’d only come here to make sure she was okay, and she was clearly fine. Mostly.
“Um, sure. You could measure out two cups of flour.” She nodded at one of the bags on the island.
He washed his hands at the sink, then joined her to measure and mix and stir. “What kind of cookies are you making?”
“I’m trying something new. Cookie dough macarons.”
Damn, that sounded good. He had to admit he had a sweet tooth, and Callie did come up with some amazing creations. He let her tell him what to do, feeling weirdly comfortable despite being totally out of his element. It was nice in her bright kitchen on a sunny Saturday afternoon, Keith Urban playing through speakers mounted somewhere. Callie really did appear to feel okay, bopping a little to the music as she scraped down the sides of a big bowl with a bright-red spatula. Her eyes still drooped a bit, but damn, she was as sweet as the cookie dough.
“Hey!” She fixed her eyes on him. “No snitching the dough.”
“Come on. It’s the best part.”
She smirked. “Just you wait until these are done. We’ll see about that.”
He snuck a little more of the delectable batter and let it melt on his tongue. She glared at him again.
Jesus, he was like a little kid—even negative attention from her was better than none. He swallowed a sigh.
She focused on another bowl she was mixing. “Macarons are supposedly French, but I learned the Italian meringue method of making them. My first couple of tries were disasters.”
“I find that hard to believe. Everything you make is awesome.”
“Thank you.” She flashed him a white smile. “Butsonot true. I just don’t share the failures. These little beauties are very temperamental.”
“What’s in that bowl?”
“Almond meal and confectioner’s sugar.” She gave it a stir with a whisk.
“What else can I do?”
