He doesn’t find it funny, his body turning as mine does and then we’re facing each other again, but this time, he’s the one against the counter while I’m three steps away and counting.

“What your partner needs... is to stay in his lane, and to learn when to keep himself out of a conversation.” Scott’s words are delivered with a nasty, condemnatory tone, making it clear he believes this lane he speaks of is several miles behind his own.

Arsen comes to a screeching halt, causing my body to bump into his. The finger curled with mine twitches. I glance down, finding I’m subconsciously running my thumb along his knuckle.

“Oh, that’s right.” Scott delivers a foul laugh, widening his shoulders. “Conversations aren’t something he’s capable of.”

I jerk free of Arsen’s hold and I’m in Scott’s face before I know what I’m doing or why.

Threats are ready to spew from me like vomit, vomit he deserves to be served fresh and hot across his ridiculous shoes for calling attention to someone’s disabilities, but I take a second to swallow, to heed the subtle warning in his eyes when what I really want to do is spit in them.

He and I, we run in the same circle, the one I was pulled into when my old friends learned I was coming back here.

Arsen, he doesn’t even have a circle, but a triangle, and I don’t doubt he’s capable of handling anything thrown his way.

So why am I standing in his way?

I lick my lips.

“Lucky for him, I’m not a fan of useless conversation.” I manage to hold the indignation at bay and hit him with a bored grin. “Catch you later, Scott.”

Stepping out wide, I maneuver myself around Arsen, and head straight for our table, but I’m caught around the wrist and yanked to a hard halt.

My eyes snap up to meet Ransom’s.

His glare is instant and he shoves to his feet, his head jerking in the direction I came from.

His jaw flexes and he releases me, but I don’t stand there to see what comes next and I don’t know why my muscles have turned to knots.

I hastily slip the gloves on and dive straight into the mixing bowl to blend the ingredients, ignoring the ridiculous way my pulse beats through my palms.

I don’t realize I’m basically strangling the poor dough until a solid chest meets my back, a familiar one that shouldn’t feel familiar, and large hands slip inside the bowl, molding over mine.

His fingers do the work, entwining ours together and guiding us both, kneading and rolling the dough as if he’s done this a hundred times when the whisk already gave away the truth.

His chin dips slightly, bringing his jawline to my cheek.