Two days later, I stood leaning against the doorway, watching her.
She was working at the bar top counter that separated the kitchen from the rest of the open floor plan. She wore headphones, and was singing The Lion Sleeps Tonight off key at the top of her lungs.
A-weema-weh, a-weema-weh…
I chuckled.
Flour was sprinkled on the counter in front of her, and it looked like she was kneading bread dough.
I didn’t want to upset her—she appeared relaxed, like she was enjoying herself, but at the same time, I knew that if things were going to proceed between us, I would have to be the one to make it happen. Push it to happen.
A couple strands of her golden hair had escaped her messy bun and a smudge of flour was on her nose. She picked up the ball of dough and slapped it forcefully back down on the counter. Then stopped to roll her shoulders and gyrate her hips to the music.
She looked up, our gazes collided, and she froze like a deer in the headlights. Her heartrate picked up—easily detectable to my shifter hearing.
Her eyes blinked rapidly, then she looked down at her work space and began punching the dough with renewed vigor.
I huffed a laugh. She was imagining the dough was my face, no doubt.
I came up behind her and gently stroked her upper arms to get her attention.
She jumped and spun in one move, slapping my chest and leaving a flour handprint on my black T-shirt.
“What the hell are you doing?”
I pursed my lips together, trying not to grin.
“Getting your attention. What are you doing?”
She swallowed and gave me a sideways glance.
“I’m testing a new recipe for my blog. It’s what I always do to ease stress.”
“How much?”
“How much what?”
“Don’t you offer private instruction? How much do you charge for private cooking lessons?
“You want to learn to bake?” She sounded skeptical.
I nodded. “Desperately. How much?”
She rolled her eyes. “You can’t afford me.”
“Try me.”
She continued to work. “A hundred and hour.”
“I removed my wallet and tossed two hundred dollar bills on the counter. “There. Now that that’s out of the way, let’s get to baking bread.”
She blinked a few times, looked down at the money, back at me, and down at the money again. She rubbed a hand across the back of her neck seemingly unaware it left a trail of flour.
“Why are you doing this?”
I stared into her eyes. “Look, if you really don’t want to, I’m not going to harass you, but we need to talk. I thought it might be better if, when we did, you had something other than my face to punch.”
She drew in a huge breath and let it out slowly as she considered it.
“Okay. Go wash your hands.”
14
Elin
Last night, I’d been a little ashamed of the way I treated Dylan in the grocery store. A little. Then, when he went all Neanderthal on Mac, I was livid…until Mac admitted to intentionally instigating a fight to provoke a typical mate response.
Now I was confused.
By attacking Mac for hugging me, Dylan had behaved the way shifters were supposed to behave in regard to their mate.
But we weren’t mates.
The passion between us had been so intense when we met, that I’d been tricked into thinking we were, until Parker set me straight. It hurt like hell to hear, but she explained the truth about lion shifters.
Regardless, Dylan was right about us needing to open some lines of communication. For Nugget’s sake.
I slipped the loaves of bread I’d been working on in the oven, and set the timer, so I could start a new batch with Dylan. Then, I spent a moment gathering my thoughts before starting the conversation.
“Okay, let’s talk about Nugget.” I began preparing the workspace while he washed his hands in the kitchen sink.
“Nugget?”
“Nugget.” I pointed to my abdomen. “If you want to be in Nugget’s life, great. You and I will remain civil, respect each other’s privacy, and keep our interactions strictly centered our child. I think together, we can work out an acceptable visitation schedule. Okay with you?”
In the blink of an eye, he was across the kitchen and at my side, shaking his head. “No. Not okay.”
I was flooded with disappointment. I had hoped he would love and want our baby as much as I did. Apparently, that wasn’t the case. My heart lodged in my throat, and I struggled to fight back tears.
I tried to sound unaffected. “That’s fine too. I’ll handle all parenting responsibilities and ask you for nothing.”
“That’s not okay either.”
I turned to him, scowling.
He shrugged. “What if I want more?”
What did he mean more? Was he going to fight me for custody? According to Mariah, Dylan had made millions from the sale of his tech company. He didn’t flinch just now when I quoted him a ridiculous $100 an hour for a private baking lesson. He could hire a team of top notch lawyers while I’d be stuck trying to find an ambulance chaser I could afford on the miniscule pay I earned from my fledgling business ventures. Anxiety nearly choked me and I fought to keep from acting as freaked out as I felt. “What do you mean more?”
“I want Nugget’s mom too.”
My eyes widened. I had no idea what to do with that, so I handed him a yeast packet and gestured to the bowl of warm water. “Sprinkle this over the water. Then add a teaspoon of sugar.”
He tore open the packet, his eyes flicking back to me as he worked. “There’s no question I want to be there for our baby in every way, but I want to be a part of your life too.”
My heart was racing. I didn’t trust him. I had good reason not to. How long would it be before he disappeared on Nugget and me the way my father had done with my mother and me?
I cleared my throat. “Yeast can be touchy. The trick is to make sure the water
