level, and now I’m staring right at his—
Hooded warrior.
Flesh trumpet.
Groinstalk.
“Dear God, stop.”
Bradley looks up with alarm. “Am I doing it wrong?”
“What? No.” I can’t believe I said that out loud. “I’m sorry, you’re fine. Please, continue.”
I turn away, determined to focus on preparing the meal. I stir the flour and cornmeal, adding a little low-sodium salt. My big purple whisk makes sloppy, slurpy sounds as I whip it through the mix of egg and milk and—
“So what happens next?” Bradley’s voice snaps my attention back to him. He’s holding up one skewered hot dog, and suddenly, my palms go clammy. “We stick these in the batter and then the oil?”
I swallow back my own mortification. Can he tell I’ve morphed into a filthy-minded vixen who can’t stop thinking about penises?
Of course not. Surely three decades of practice allows me to hide my innermost thoughts behind a mask of royal propriety.
But seriously, how did I never notice the entire process of making corndogs is wrought with sexual symbolism? The flex of Bradley’s biceps isn’t helping, and neither is the muscular plane of his chest.
“Um, first we rub each hot dog with cornstarch so the batter adheres properly.” I pluck the skewered frankfurter from his hand and force myself to demonstrate. “Like this, so all the flesh gets covered.”
Flesh? Is that even the right word? I can’t think straight as I stand here stroking the hot dog with a fistful of cornstarch while the hottest man I know watches. I dare a glance at Bradley’s face and wish I hadn’t. He’s staring at me with his mouth agape, eyes darting back and forth as I slide the hot dog through the tunnel of my curled fingers.
“That’s, uh—pretty thorough.”
“What? Oh, yes.” I gulp. “That’s enough of that.”
Cheeks blazing, I reach for the batter bowl and promptly pour the wet ingredients into the dry. I’m mixing and beating and doing my best to get my brain back on track. To focus on the recipe, on the culinary craft of—
Love lollipop.
Uncle spunky.
Bonercoaster.
“Okay!” I practically shout it like a maniac as I set the mixing bowl on the counter. “Now we pour the batter into a tall drinking glass.” My voice sounds high and shaky and I’m certain Bradley can hear my raunchy inner thoughts. That he knows, deep down, I’m not a duchess but a twelve-year-old boy.
“A drinking glass?” He watches as I carefully pour the batter. “What’s that for?”
“It’s the perfect shape to ensure even coverage and the least amount of batter waste.”
“Makes sense.” He picks up a cornstarch-dusted hot dog and holds it above the glass. “Like this?”
I open my mouth to reply as he plunges it in, dunking the dog deeply into the milky liquid. I nod because I can’t find any words. None that aren’t penis euphemisms, anyway. For goodness sake, how many times is he planning to thrust that hot dog into the glass?
“Um, that should be good.” I clear my throat, pretty sure I’ve forgotten a step somewhere.
“The oil!” I spin around and stalk to the stove. Flicking on the burner, I set the temperature to medium-high. “This can get a bit messy,” I continue as I bend down to find the mesh splatter screen Sean gave me. I know it’s in here somewhere. Maybe behind the cookie sheet or wedged between two cutting boards. “If you’re not careful, the hot oil spurts all over the place and—ah-ha!”
I stand up triumphantly, splatter screen in one hand. Bradley blinks, gaze snapping to mine about a half-second too late. That’s when I realize he was checking out my ass.
Or maybe he’s staring because of what I said about spurting and splattering and—
“Dear God.” I set the mesh screen down on the counter and close my eyes, defeated. “Please tell me I’m not the only one having terrible thoughts.”
“Terrible?” The sexy rumble of Bradley’s voice has me opening my eyes again. That’s when I see he’s taken a step closer, that there’s a heat in his eyes I’m sure wasn’t there before.
Or maybe it was. Maybe I failed to notice.
“Terrible,” I repeat, no longer convinced that’s the right word. “Between you putting penis thoughts in my head and—”
“I put penis thoughts in your head?” Bradley quirks an eyebrow. “This from the woman who just gave a handy to a frankfurter?”
“A hand—oh, a hand job?”
He blinks, then smiles. “So I wasn’t imagining it?”
“I didn’t do it on purpose.” I smack my palm on the counter, frustrated by my own lack of self-control. “All