ROSE’S POV
The kitchen was warm. I leaned against the counter, watching Taylor move around like he owned the place. He wasn’t even helping. He was just leaning close enough to swipe the wooden spoon from me whenever I reached for it.
“Seriously, Rose,” he teased, holding the spoon high above his head, “if cooking was a sport, you’d… well, you wouldn’t even qualify for the team.”
I gasped dramatically. “Excuse me? You think this”—I gestured to the batter I’d been working on—“isn’t culinary genius?”
He smirked. “If your goal was to invent a new species of cement, then sure.”
I lunged for the spoon, but he dodged. His grin got wider. My cheeks ached from smiling, but I didn’t care. I grabbed a pinch of flour from the counter and flicked it at him.
The puff of white landed on his shirt.
