“Oh, don’t even try to ruin this visual, Flynn. In my fantasy, you’re definitely wearing a chef’s hat.”
“In your fantasy?” he questions with a raise of one curious brow. “If you want me to fuck you with a chef’s hat on, all you have to do is say so.”
“You wouldn’t, you liar.”
He just stares back at me, and I know instantly, he actually would do that. Flynn Winslow is a man of his word. And he’s also a man I’m always desperate to find out more things about. Things that no one else knows. Only me.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, but what about the chef’s hat fucking, Daisy? Or the spanking? Those sound promising…
“Flynn!” I call toward the living room where I know post-dinner Flynn is currently relaxing on the couch, watching whatever boring sports game is on ESPN. “Your presence is requested in the kitchen!”
A minute later, he’s standing in the doorway, and his eyes survey my setup on the counters.
“What is all this?”
“Cake baking time,” I answer and hold out the paper chef’s hat I made just for him. “Here. Put this on.”
When he doesn’t take it, I stand up on my tippy-toes and shove it on his head. After one pat to his broad, firm chest, I grin up at him. “There. Perfect.”
“What’s the plan, Daisy?”
I wink and hold up a box of Betty Crocker cake mix. “The plan is to let me see Chef Flynn in action.”
Pretty sure the real plan is to entice Chef Flynn to bang you…
“Anyone can make cake from a box, babe.”
“Yeah, well, it’s what you had in the cabinets,” I answer on a shrug. Plus, I, personally, don’t have a clue how to bake a cake from scratch. That would’ve required far too much Googling for what I’m actually trying to achieve here.
Cake is great. Fantastic, even. But getting Flynn to do dirty, sexy things with me? Well, that beats cake every day of the week. And, trust me, I’m a cake-lover from way back. I could write a twenty-paragraph essay, APA formatted, with the bibliography, on my love for it, but nothing beats a naked Flynn getting me to do bad-girl kinds of things.
“And don’t worry, I made us both chef’s hats for the baking cause,” I add and snag my white paper hat from the counter and pointedly put it on my head.
A smile whispers across his mouth, almost lifting his lips up at the corners.
“So…Chef Winslow, are you ready to get started?”
“Do I have a choice?”
I shake my head, and his smile is visible now.
“Let’s bake some shit!” I exclaim, fist-pump the air, and grab him by the hand to drag him the rest of the way to the counter where I have his KitchenAid mixer set up. “First of all, I’ve always wanted one of these mixers, and I’m almost positive I’ve never dated a man who owns one.”
“Married,” he corrects me with a playful tap to my butt, and I giggle.
To my surprise, Flynn actually gets to work, grabbing the box of cake mix. But he doesn’t do what I expect him to do. Instead of checking the instructions on the back and opening the package, he returns it to the cabinet and proceeds to get out containers of flour and sugar.
“What are you doing?”
“If we’re baking a cake, we’re doing it right.”
“Wait…you know how to make a cake? Like, without Betty Crocker’s assistance?”
He doesn’t respond. Instead, he grabs milk and butter and eggs from the fridge and proceeds to start adding shit to the bowl locked inside the mixer.
With a flick of his wrist, the mixer is on and spinning around the wet ingredients.
“Oh my God, this is better than I even imagined,” I mutter more to myself than him and snag my phone off the counter. “I have to get photo proof of this or else your sister won’t believe me.”
Flynn chuckles at that and tries to grab my phone with a playful hand, but I dodge his movements with a few bobs and weaves. “Traitor.”
I grin and snap a quick action shot.
And just for good measure, I take three more photos of big, bad Flynn standing in front of the KitchenAid mixer with a paper chef’s hat on his head.
To be honest, the whole scene is far hotter than I ever thought it could be. Like my own personal food porn, but minus the food.
Hello, ovaries. Please don’t explode.
But before I can even fire off a message to Winnie, my phone vibrates in my hands with a text.
Duncan Jones: Daisy, baby, how have you been? Damien told me you’re in New York for the next couple of months, and since I’m going to be in the Big Apple next weekend, I was wondering if you wanted to schedule that rain check. Pretty sure you owe me a date. ;)
“God, no! No, no, no, no!” The Michael Scott GIF of him reacting to Toby’s unexpected presence in the office flashes in my mind. And then another stupid text chimes through.
Duncan Jones: I won’t take no for an answer, and I promise you’ll have the time of your life.
“Uh…excuse me?” I question out loud, staring down at the screen of my phone in irritation. “That’s not how it works, bucko.”
“Everything okay?”
I glance up to find Flynn looking at me with concern, and the sounds of the mixer have been silenced by the off switch.
“Yeah,” I answer through a sigh. “Just some unwanted attention from a guy I worked with at the LA office.”
“Unwanted attention?” he asks, and I hold my phone out toward him so he can read the text messages.
“Well, he sounds like a real fucking prick,” Flynn comments, and I shrug.
“He’s…a little overzealous.”
“He won’t take no for an answer,” Flynn repeats Duncan’s words. “That’s not overzealous, babe. That’s harassment.”
“I don’t think he realizes that.”
“Who is this fuck?”
“Just some agent at the fir—” I pause for a moment when all the pieces of the puzzle fall into place. “Actually, you’ve seen him. You know who Duncan is.”
Flynn quirks a brow.
“He’s the guy you thought I was running away from at the Wynn. Right before I made you take me for a ride on your bike and wed me into holy matrimony.”
A smile lifts the corners of his mouth, and moments later, his fingers tap across the screen.
“What are you doing?”
With one more tap to the keys, he hands my phone back, and I look down at the screen.
Me: This is Flynn Winslow, Daisy’s husband. It’s time you lose her number. That is, unless you’d like for both of us to join you on the forced “rain check.” If that’s the case, then name the time and place, and we’ll be there.
Oh, holy macaroni. Pretty sure he just threw down the gauntlet.
I don’t know whether to be grateful or freaked out. I glance from my phone to Flynn’s face to my phone again. I can imagine Duncan’s head is spinning over the news that I’m married, but I’m not exactly mad about that.
I’m just… I don’t know? Shocked? Confused? But also, oddly happy.
The Flynn I met in Vegas was quiet, a bit surly even, but the Flynn who’s standing in front of me now, the one who just played texting-knight-in-shining-armor feels different. He’s still Flynn, but he’s more fun-loving, more open, freer with his words. He’s just…more.