Love According to Science_ A Hot Enemies-t-Lovers Romantic Comedy (Dirty Martini Running Club #2) - Claire Kingsley Page 0,43

four minutes longer than necessary, browning the edges too much. I glared at it, as if it had over-baked itself on purpose, and shoved it down the counter. It joined a pile of sugar cookies, two dozen chocolate cupcakes decorated with multicolored sprinkles, and a plate of apple turnovers.

It was early afternoon, but my legs and back ached with fatigue. I’d started my day with a run—solo, this time, but if I was going to be ready for a half-marathon, I needed to stick to my training regimen.

I’d spent the rest of my day baking. I needed something—anything—to take my mind off last night.

Off Corban and his superhuman ability to drag an orgasm out of my previously stubborn body.

I felt both infinitely better and so much worse. When I’d slid on my panties after my shower this morning, my clit hadn’t momentarily buzzed at the brush of contact from the fabric. That had been a pleasant change.

But the memory of him inside me—the blissful pressure of his thickness—made me ache.

I’d told him I wouldn’t want him again, and I’d known it was a lie when I’d said it. I did want him again. Or rather, my traitorous body did. My brain understood the reality of our situation. My body did not.

How had I let this happen? Was an orgasm—a glorious, mind-blowing orgasm—worth it? I had to work with him on Monday. Look him in the eyes and speak to him.

I hauled a fresh bag of flour out of the cupboard and set it on the counter with a thump. Puffs of white billowed in the air and I waved my hand, coughing. There was already flour everywhere from my marathon baking session.

“Don’t be so judgmental,” I said to Erwin.

He cracked an eye open and one ear twitched.

“I know what you’re thinking. You said yes, Hazel. You told him you wanted it. And now you have to live with the consequences.” I grabbed a dirty mixing bowl out of the sink—I’d used every one I owned at least once today—and started cleaning it out. “And you’re right. I did. But rubbing my face in it isn’t helping.”

I dried the bowl with a towel and set it next to the flour just as the oven timer dinged. I’d whipped up a batch of shortbread cookies while the lemon meringue pie baked and tossed them in the already-hot oven after it had come out.

“Erwin, where did I put my oven mitts?”

My cat offered no suggestions, so I poked around the mess of mixing bowls, utensils, measuring cups, and ingredients I hadn’t put away. Finally, I found them beneath a torn sheet of parchment paper and pulled the shortbread cookies out of the oven. They’d spread more than they should.

Another fail.

Frustrated, I set the baking sheet down so the shortbread could cool. This was so unlike me. I was usually an excellent baker.

Perhaps my subconscious was acting out. My baking mistakes were an outward sign of my inner turmoil. A rather Freudian notion, but it probably had some merit.

With my hands on my hips, I contemplated the new bag of flour. What to make next? I could make muffins, although muffin batter required a fair bit of finesse. Over-mixing was a danger, and I doubted my ability to be gentle at this point. I needed something forgiving—something I couldn’t ruin.

“Hazel?” Nora’s voice came from the front of my apartment.

I’d texted her earlier to let her know I was baking and she should come over to take some of it off my hands. If I was left alone with all this, I’d be gaining a lot more than a bra size.

“In the kitchen.”

“God, why is it so hot in here? And why does it smell like—” She stopped, both speaking and walking, when she rounded the corner to my kitchen. “What happened?”

I groaned. “Well, the cupcakes are a bit dry and I think the frosting is too thick. The sugar cookies are uneven, and the turnovers are too chewy. The meringue got too brown, and—”

“Hazel,” she said, cutting me off. “What happened to you?”

“Nothing.” My voice was oddly high-pitched. “Nothing at all. I just can’t seem to get these recipes right.”

Nora’s eyes swept over the disaster that was my kitchen. I blinked in surprise, as if seeing it for the first time. The sink piled with dishes. The growing mound of imperfect baked goods. Smears of butter and shortening, a sugar spill on the floor, and a light coating of flour dust on just about