she finally manages to ask, her eyes roving over me again. Except this time they linger not on the dusty smears of flour, but on the tapered lines of my waist. On the places where my sleeves are rolled into crisp, straight rolls, showing off the forearms I pay an ungodly trainer’s fee for. Watching her drink in my body is headier than any eight-point-five percent beer, and I have to remind myself to focus. Dinner. Pastry folds. Right.
