"Naw, stepsister," I say, shooting a quick look back at Chloe who's very conveniently stuck earbuds into her ears at this point.
"Well, shit, either way, you're not chasing that then I take it?"
I make a face at Marco. "No, mate; fuckin' of course not. I'm not a bloody pervert or something."
Yes, I am.
"The fuck you're not, mate," Marco says with a raise of his eyebrows. "But still, slipping it to your sister might be a little low-brow even for you."
"She's not my sister, ass."
Marco cranes his head over my shoulder and raises his eyebrows, and I can feel that temper start to flare inside again as I watch his eyes dart all over Chloe's back. "Well then, I guess you don't mind if I take a swing, yeah?"
I can't say shit. Okay, there's a lot I want to say, but I'm mostly concerned right then about why the thought of Marco hitting on Chloe, or doing anything in the slightest fucking bit with her gets me fucking heated. I turn to look at her, watching as she separates eggs over a mixing bowl, her head moving with just the faintest movements to the beat of whatever she's listening to, and just one stray lock of brown hair slipping over her cheek.
Easy, pal.
I swallow that heat though and put on my most nonchalant face as I turn back to Marco, "Nah, fuck off mate; we've got shit to do."
He shrugs, eyeing her again in a way that has my blood boiling. "Well, soon then, yeah? We could get drinks tonight after-"
"Work, Marco," I say firmly, nodding at his prep list.
"You got it, chef."
There's a meditative sort of state to baking. That probably sounds weird, but really, go try it sometime. And I don't mean cracking open a box of instant brownies and then throwing on Netflix, I mean really baking. It's the feel of an egg-yolk between your fingers, the smell of flour hanging in the air, the twirl of a spatula through a thickening mix. There's the heat of an open oven, the sizzle of a sauce-pan, the bubbling of a glaze or the frothing of cream.
When I used to watch my dad back in the bakery when I was a kid, it was like being in Willy Wonka's factory. It was magic - literally magic - watching everyday things that we even had in our refrigerator back home turn into something like a towering cake, or rich velvety chocolate tart. Things that any eight year old would normally wrinkle their nose at, like raw eggs, or unsweetened chocolate, would suddenly and magically turn into something amazing.
I bake to clear my head, and because I love it. But I suppose I also do it to capture a little bit of that magic, wherever it may be still floating around the world like flour dust.
Baking is making something good in the world. It's making something wonderful that makes people happy. At the end of the day, a cookie is just a cookie; a quiche or a tart is just a slice of lunch, really. But stirring and beating and mixing are all labors of love that go into this one thing, and sometimes the world just needs a little love put back into it.
It's quiet as the rest of the kitchen starts to pack up after the shift. The counters are washed down, the grills turned off, knives sharpened, glasses polished, cutting-boards bleached, and lights turned low. I should probably go home, considering the late, sleepless night I had, followed by the horrible wake-up call this morning, all thanks to Oliver.
But instead, I'm staying here, in the semi-darkness of a now-quiet kitchen, baking.
"Need a taster?"
I whirl, yanking the headphones out of my ears, my hands flying to my chest, and my heart about jumping right out of my throat.
"Jesus, Oliver." I suck in a deep breath, glaring at him, "You scared the shit out of me."
"Let this be a lesson about wearing headphones in a kitchen then," He says with a shrug of his shoulders. He's out of his chef-whites, in jeans and a black-t-shirt with his face looking freshly scrubbed and his hair wet and slicked back from a shower downstairs. His full lips pull back into a cocky sort of grin. Smile lines etch his cheek and that strong jaw line draws my eyes before they dart up to meet his dark brown ones.
"You did good tonight, cupcake," he says with a grin. He holds his hand out, passing a can of cheap-looking beer my way.
I make a face.
Oliver rolls his eyes, "What do you want, fucking champagne?" He smirks, "Welcome to kitchen life, luv. Now drink up."
He cracks a second beer for himself before moving next to me to lean against the counter-top and peer down into the bowl I've been mixing. "So what are you making?"
"Just experimenting with a recipe for savory tarts. Balsamic-glazed wheat berry and brussel sprouts."
He nods slowly, arching a brow, "Not bad, not bad. Tarts, huh?"
"Yeah."
"A bit different from those buns of yours this morning then, eh?"
My face grows red and I shoot him a look. But for some reason, this time there's nothing behind the look; at least none of the honest vitriol from earlier. This time it's more a flirting look.
God, what am I doing?
And honestly, when and how exactly did me being pissed at this cocky little shit turn into whatever little flirtiness I'm showing now? Am I so cheap that I can be bought with a can of beer and a single mediocre comment about my job performance?
"You're not drinking." Oliver nods at the foamy beer in my hand, "C'mon, you're like pissing on sacrament here."
I roll my eyes. There's Oliver for you, always so cocky and dominant.
Demanding.
"Fine," I say, taking a big sip of the cheap beer in my hand. Hey, at least it's cold this time. "But I'd ask that you please get my buns out of your head, thank you very much." I roll my eyes as I pick up my whisk again and start to whip the batter I've got going in the bowl.
"Oy, you're doing that wrong."
I raise a brow as I look at him, "Excuse me?"
"The whisking," he says with a shrug, "You're beating the batter, not mixing it."
"Seriously?" I give him a withering look before I roll my eyes and turn back to my mixing bowl.
"Look, it's not a power thing," he says, "I'm just saying there's a better way."
"Oh, right because you know all the best techniques."
"Oh, trust me," he grins at me, "My techniques would blow your mind, sweetheart," he finishes with a wink that has the blood rushing into my cheeks.
Oliver moves behind me suddenly, his hand circling around me and coming to rest on top of my own over the handle of the whisk.
"Hey! Just what do you think you're-"
"Relax, I'm just going to show you."
I feel a shiver up my back at sound of his voice, so deep and low in my ear, as well as the feel of him so close behind me. I can smell whatever clean-smelling soap he's used to wash his face. I can feel the heat and the hardness of his muscles pressing into my back.
"You've got to love the whisk, darlin'," he husks into my ear, "Right now you're jerking that thing like you're giving it a fuckin' handjob."
"Jesus, Oliver," I wrinkle my nose.
"What! That's what it looks like!" He chuckles, and I feel his laughter through my back as he moves close, his other hand circling my waist. "Look, you just need to be more gentle. It's more like you're brushing hair, or conducting an orchestra or something." He chuckles, "Not jerking a cock."
I flush again, and I can feel him pressing against me. I can feel something else pressing against me too, actually.
I swallow thickly, "I've- I've got it now."
"Do you?" He murmurs.
"Mhmm."
But we're still moving the whisk together, his hand over mine and our bodies moving together almost imperceptibly side to side as he guides my hand.
And I don't want him to stop just yet.
I blush, knowing that hardness I can feel pressing into my ass is his cock growing rock hard against me, and feeling how, well, not small, that bulge is has me biting my lips. It has me questioning what it is we're doing here and why I'm not pushing him away.
He leans in closer to me, his breath a warm tickle against my neck. I bite my lip, letting my eyes close for just a second as I let the fact that Oliver Beckett has one hand on my hip, the other on my hand, and his erection pressed firmly against my ass.
"You smell good, you know," he murmurs, that accent melting over me.
I take a shaky breath, "Don't."
I can practically feel him smirk behind me, "Don't what."
"Smell me. I've been working all night, I'm gross."
"Well you smell fantastic to me."
My heart starts to race, and I feel my breath catch as the hand on my hip begins to circle around to my front, slowly pulling me back into him. "Oliver, we shouldn't," I say quietly, my eyes closing just a little as I let myself be pulled against him. Why does it have to feel so good?