The next evening I was rol ing out the pie crust when the text came in from Simon.
Come on over whenever. I’l start dinner once you’re here.
I’m still working on the pie, but I’ll be over soon.
Need any help?
How are you with peeling apples?
The next thing I heard was a knock on the door. I walked over, hands covered in flour, and elbowed the door open. “Wel , hel o there,” I said,
holding the door open with my foot.
“Looks like the end of Scarface in here,” he observed, reaching out to touch my nose and show me the flour on the end.
“I tend to lose control when there’s pie crust involved,” I said as he shut the door.
“Duly noted. That’s good information for me to have,” he responded, swatting at my hand as I tried to slap him.
He took a good long look at me then, blue eyes dropping from my face and traveling across my body. “Hmm, you weren’t kidding about the
apron, I don’t know how long I’l be able to hang in here without trying a little grab-ass.”
“Get in there and grab an apple, buddy,” I said and walked toward the kitchen, adding a little extra swish to my hips. I heard him sigh heavily. I
glanced down at my outfit, noting my tank top, old jeans, bare feet, and chef’s apron that said, You should see my scones…
“Now when you said ‘grab an apple,’ what exactly were you referring to?” he asked from the kitchen where he’d started taking off his sweater.
I shook my head at the sight of Simon in a black T-shirt and weathered jeans. He was in his stocking feet once again, and I marveled at how at
ease he seemed in my kitchen.
I walked around the kitchen counter and picked up my rol ing pin. “You know, I won’t think twice about whacking you over the head with this if
you continue this borderline sexual harassment,” I warned, running my hand up and down the rol ing pin suggestively.
“I’m gonna have to ask you not to do that if you’re serious about me peeling apples here,” he said, eyes widening.
“I never joke about pie, Simon.” I sprinkled a little more flour on the marble.
He was silent while he watched me pat out the pie crust, breathing through his mouth. “So, what are you gonna do with that?” he asked, his
voice low.
“With this?” I asked, leaning over the board, and perhaps arching my back a little as I did.
“Mmm-hmm,” he replied.
“I’m gonna rol this crust out. See, like this?” I teased again, thrusting the pin back and forth over the dough, making sure I arched my back each
time and the forward action pushed my girls together.
“Oh my,” he whispered, and I grinned naughtily at him.
“You gonna be okay over there, big guy? This is just the top crust, I stil need to work on my bottom,” I said over my shoulder.
His hands clutched at the edge of the counter. “Apples. Apples. Gonna peel me some apples,” he told himself and turned away toward the
colander fil ed with apples in the sink.
“Let me just get you the peeler,” I said, coming up behind him and pressing myself against him as I curled around his side to grab the
vegetable peeler from the other sink. This was fun.
“Peeling apples, just peeling apples. Didn’t feel your boobs. No, no, not me,” he chanted as I openly laughed at him.
“Here, peel this,” I said, taking pity on him and removing myself from his cooking space. I might have sniffed his T-shirt.
“Did you just sniff me?” he asked, keeping himself turned away.
“I might have,” I admitted, going back to my rol ing pin, which I squeezed mightily.
“I thought so.”
“Hey, if you can sniff, I can sniff,” I shot back, taking out my sexual frustration on a defenseless Pâte Brisée.
“Only fair. So how do I rate?”
“Good. Very good, actual y. Downy?”
“Bounce. I lost my Downy bal ,” he confessed.
I laughed, and we continued to rol and peel. Within fifteen minutes, we had a bowlful of peeled and sliced apples, a perfectly rol ed-out pie
crust, and we’d both consumed our first glass of wine.
“Okay, what’s next?” he asked, wiping up flour and general y tidying.
“Now we spice things up and add a little citrus,” I answered, lining up cinnamon and nutmeg, my sugar bowl, and a lemon.
“Okay, where do you want me?” he asked, taking care to show me his hands, now covered in flour.
Visions ran through my head, and I had to bite back an invitation to show him exactly where I wanted him. “First dust yourself off, and then we’l
get started. You can be my assistant.”
He looked around for a dishtowel, and I turned to look for the one I knew I’d left out. I’d already started for it on the counter when I felt two very