“Ouch. Okay, noted.”

I attach the beaters in their respective spots and then plug in the mixer before handing it over to him. “We beat the butter first.”

“Sounds so wrong. Beating the butter.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Hey, I’m going to go in the other room and beat the butter real quick—don’t wait up.”

I pause and tilt my head, blinking.

Blinking.

“Did you . . . did you, Mr. Top-Rated Attorney, just compare beating butter to jacking off?”

He switches on the hand mixer. “Matter of fact, I did. And guess what, both actions cream.”

“Oh my God.” I pretend to gag, and he laughs out loud. “I don’t think I can ever look at you the same.”

“Luna Rossi, are you a prude?”

“What? No.”

“Seems like it, if you can’t take a little masturbation joke.”

“Dude,” I deadpan, and his smile grows even wider. “We’re making white frosting, which we’re about to eat, and you’re talking about masturbation. You don’t see anything wrong with that?”

“Not really, no. But this conversation has led me to believe that maybe, just maybe, you’re a little bit of a prude.”

“I’m not a prude.”

“Prove it,” he says playfully.

“Prove it? What do you want me to do? Go ‘beat the butter’ in the other room while you’re creaming the butter in here?” I say, using air quotes.

His head tilts back as he laughs. “I mean, I was looking for a little anecdote from your past, but if you want to go beat the butter, by all means, feel free. All I ask is you wash your hands after. You know, for sanitary purposes.”

“And here I thought you were more dignified than most of the men I date . . .” Oh fuck. “I mean hang out with. Not date. I didn’t mean to say ‘date.’ Just, you know . . .” I sigh and press my hand to the cupboard. “I think beating the butter in your bedroom would be less humiliating than this right now.”

He just smiles and turns off the mixer, the butter properly creamed. “What next, boss?”

“Soooo,” I drag out, “you’re just going to skip over that embarrassing remark?”

“I was planning on it, despite liking the way your cheeks are all flushed, but you seem to want to keep talking about it.” He crosses his arms over his chest and props his hip against the counter. “By all means, let’s dive deep into what you really meant.”

“I’d rather not.”

“That’s what I thought.” He reaches out and tips my chin up. “Now tell me what’s next, so we can move past your awkward moment and get on to my awkward moment. I’m sure one will happen soon.”

Sweet. That’s what he is, a sweet, funny man.

And dangerous.

Dangerous because he’s a lethal combination of everything I’d look for in a guy.

“Vanilla,” I say out of nowhere. “We need to add the vanilla and whip that in too; then we gradually add the powdered sugar.”

“Got it.” He pours in the vanilla, and when we’re ready, I slowly add in the powdered sugar while he mixes. Silence falls between us, and I know it’s because I made that weird comment, something that just slipped, and made that Whitney Houston upper-lip sweat reappear with a vengeance.

And I know the silence isn’t awkward for him, but it is for me, and I need to do pretty much anything to end it, so I blurt, “Elevator.”

He switches off the hand mixer. “Did you just say elevator?”

“Yeah, I did.” I swallow and nod for him to keep mixing. “I, uh . . . I once flashed a guy on the elevator. Someone I didn’t know. Someone who kept staring at my boobs the whole way up, so I thought, Why not just give him the whole show, since he’s trying to rip my shirt off with his eyes? When I neared my floor, I turned toward him, lifted my shirt, and then left, leaving him there, looking pretty shocked.”

“Um.” Alec’s Adam’s apple bobs in an intense swallow. “That’s . . . wow, why would you tell me that story?”

“To prove I’m not a prude. I’m the exact opposite. I’m a . . . a sexual exhibitionist.”

He smirks, just the right side of his mouth lifting up as his brow quirks. “A sexual exhibitionist, huh?”

“Yup, big time.”

“Okay. So what else have you done to earn the title ‘sexual exhibitionist’?”

“Too many stories to even choose from. We’re talking so many stories I could fill a book, and I frankly don’t want to bore you.”

“Try me.”

His challenging nod grates on my nerves, just like the first weekend we met each other, but instead of wanting to give him a good pow-pow to the pectoral, I want to pull his head in with both hands and run my tongue over his face.

Show him exactly what kind of sexual exhibitionist I am.

He continues to whip, patiently waiting as I think back to all the crazy and outlandish things I’ve done. The only thing that comes to mind is positively pathetic, but it flies out of my mouth before I can stop it.

“I was a Christmas tree for Halloween once. Yup, a Christmas tree. Homemade costume. Very eye catching.”

“Naturally,” he says.

“And being the clever minx that I am, I decorated myself with ornaments.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

I peek into the bowl and place my hand on top of his, turning up the speed to really whip the frosting, but I keep my hand over his to help guide him as well. I study his reaction, and when I feel his body shift closer to mine, I nearly jump out of my socks in excitement. He’s so close, inches away from pressing against me. His breath tickles the loose strands of hair on the back of my neck, and beneath my palm, I can feel strength in his fingers, his commanding grip. What would those fingers feel like gripping my hips?

Is he good in bed?

Who am I kidding? Of course he’s good in bed. He practically has SEX VIRTUOSO tattooed across his forehead.

“So, the ornaments.”

“What? Oh.” I laugh. “Sorry, yes, uh, the ornaments, sexual exhibitionist, sex-ebitionist.” He laughs as well. I like that sound, a lot. Deep and intense, but also full of humor. “So, I had them hanging off me, and get this.” I lean in a little more, trying to be sly. “I hung two ornaments right over my covered nipples, my very own Christmas melons.” I wiggle my eyebrows, and he laughs so loud I can practically feel the vibration in his chest.

“Wow. You’re such a freak.”

“Right?”

“Positively a menace to society.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying . . . sex-ebitionist.”

“Wait!” Alec shouts, stopping my hand with his. “Let’s . . . let’s just stare at it for a few more minutes.”

“It’s been twenty minutes.”

“I know, but I think it’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever made.”

I take in the two-tier cake—we kept it simple, with naked frosting and berries as decorations—and I smile. It’s really nice. I let him do all the decorating, just helping him occasionally with angles, and I have to admit it: he did a really good job.

And can we admire the sense of pride running through this man right now? It’s so freaking adorable.

He won’t stop smiling.

He’s taken a bunch of pictures of it.

And he keeps thanking me over and over again.

“You did an amazing job. Unless Team Hernandez comes in as cake ringers, I think you have a good shot with placing second.”

“Second?” He shoots a look at me. “Why not first?”

“You’re going up against me, the master.” I wink.

“Yeah, someone who admitted to leaving a cake on the windowsill for the rats to eat.”

“I was joking.” I roll my eyes. Sort of joking. “But just because we’re friends now, that doesn’t mean I’m going to go easy on you.”

“You’re calling me your friend?”

“Yeah.” I tilt my chin up. “Have a problem with that?”

“No, I like it.” He nods toward the cake. “Think I could have a picture with my friend and the cake?” He holds up his phone.

“Of course.”

“Here.” He hands me the cake carefully. “You hold it.” He puts his arm around me, his strong arm gripping me tightly as he squats down to my height and holds his phone up to us. “Smile,” he singsongs as he takes a few pictures. When he stands, he checks them out. “Man, I have a great smile.”

“Oh my God.” I set down the cake before elbowing him in the side. He laughs.

“What? Looking for another compliment? You know I like your smile.”

“Not looking for anything but a piece of cake. Can we cut into it now?”

“Fine, destroy my hard work.”

“Destroying it is the best part—that means you get to eat it.” I cut the cake and serve us up two large slices.

He nods toward the couch in the living room. “Let’s sit and eat.”

We both take a seat. I sit down first and he follows, keeping little distance between us as he turns toward me, curling one leg on the couch and resting the arm that’s holding his plate along the back of the couch. He cuts into it with the side of his fork and scoops up his first bite. I do the same and hold my fork out to him.

“Congrats on a job well done, Alec. You’re going to do great on Saturday.”

“Thank you. And thank you for the help. You know this means a lot to me.”