Wrong For You (Before You Series Book 3)(16)

His lips floated across her hair so softly, her body buzzed with possibilities. “More than sure.”

Violet reached into her pocket and pulled out a piece of paper folded into fours and handed it to Alec. “Everything you need to know is on that piece of paper.”

Alec raised his eyebrows as he opened the piece of paper and scanned the directions. When he finished, he folded the paper and headed toward the kitchen. “The muffins don’t sound too hard to make. I think I’ll have to add a few things, but this is a good starting place.”

“Oh good, because I’ve never made them before. I begged my mom to email me the recipe this morning.”

His eyes darted back and forth between her eyes and lips and it’s possible that her toes curled at bit in response. After a few seconds, he walked around to the front of the sofa and held out his hand. “Ready?”

“Ready for what?”

“To watch the magic happen.”

She giggled, and she never giggled. She was far too serious for that. What was it about Alec that made her act so un-Violet-like? “Maybe I could nap while you do the prep work. How does that sound?”

“Not happening. If I have to spend my Sunday morning baking muffins for troubled teens, you’re going to be right there with me.” He wiggled his fingers, prompting her to move. “Now move.”

“Ugh. You’re such a slave driver,” she said, rolling her eyes in mock displeasure as she grabbed onto his hand, allowing him to drag her to her feet. He pulled her into the kitchen never releasing her hand, his thumb tracing idle patterns on the inside of her wrist.

“Sit,” he said, pulling out a chair at the table. He pulled out bowls and measuring cups from the makeshift kitchen in the basement apartment. Sometimes her mom stayed there and she kept it stocked with the essentials, but nothing fancy.

“Sitting,” she responded, bracing her elbows on the table and cupping her chin. “Is there anything else you want me to do?”

“I’ll let you know when I need your help.”

“Yes, sir.”

Alec tossed the flour, eggs, sugar and melted butter in a bowl. Turning around, he leveraged the bowl against his chest as he stirred. She watched as his arms flexed with every movement and his tattoos came to life, dancing on his muscular arms. Before Alec, tattoos weren’t her thing, but when they decorated arms like his, she understood the appeal. She couldn’t lie to herself; it was a nice view. No nice was wholly inadequate to describe Alec at that moment. He looked sexy as hell.

“You know, this would be much easier if I had an electric mixer.”

“But then I couldn’t watch your arms work and I really like that part.” Oh shit, did she really say that? She looked at his face. Most definitely.

With a lopsided grin on his face and his eyebrows raised, Alec turned around and she wanted to swallow her tongue so she couldn’t say anything else so stupid. Alec probably thought she was some kind of crazy stalker who first pushed him to rent her basement apartment, then she practically twisted his arm to hike with her yesterday, and now she invited herself to make muffins with him. At that thought she nearly groaned. If she wanted to act like a stalker fangirl, at least she could be a little more creative and sexy than asking him to bake and hike with her, not that watching Alec bake wasn’t sexy because, who was she kidding? It was, but it would be infinitely more interesting if he had his shirt off and she could see where those tattoos ended.

When he reached up into one of the upper cabinets, the hem of his shirt lifted ever so slightly and she could see a hint of his flat stomach. Her breath hitched as her eyes fought to stay on his face, the kitchen, the mixing bowl…anything except that tempting expanse of skin. He sprinkled a few spices into the batter, but she focused on the way his shirt stretched and pulled across his back than his attempts to modify the recipe. He looked so good it was almost obscene. Okay. No more ogling. She was drifting into restraining order territory.

He walked toward her with the mixing bowl cupped in one hands. “Open up,” he said.

“Why?”

He sat in the chair next to her. “I want you to taste it. Let me know if you think it’s good.”

She shook her head. “No. I have a strict rule against contracting salmonella poisoning on Sundays. It’s supposed to be a day of rest and reflection. Not a day of exercise.”

He frowned, his brows knitted together. “I’m sorry. Did that make sense?”

“Yes.” Her lips twitched at the blank look on his face. “I don’t want to spend the day exercising my digestive tract in unnatural and uncomfortable positions involving a toilet bowl.”