Jack pushes her glasses up her nose with those two fingers, and my heart feels like powdered sugar inside my chest. I turn back to my dough and finally pick up a rolling pin.

“You don’t have to do that,” Jack says quickly. “Go find Andrew. Or go join the grandmas in the hot tub. I can make all the cookies.”

“I don’t mind helping.” I press the rolling pin to the dough, but instead of flattening, the dough simply sticks to my pin.

“Here,” a voice says low in my ear, and there’s Jack, standing right at my back, reaching around me to take the rolling pin. “Let’s use flour so it doesn’t stick.”

She grabs a fistful of flour from a glass container on the counter and sprinkles it over my rolling pin and the parchment paper. She’s standing so close to me, I can smell that impossible scent of freshly baked bread that seems to live on her clothes. I can feel the heat of her body and the tension in her muscles from the earlier argument with her family.

“Apply pressure evenly,” Jack orders, and I’m not sure why those words make my toes curl against the cool tile floor. “And don’t let the pin hit the counter. Just roll to the edge and stop.”

She’s still standing at my back, her presence like a palpable shadow behind me. A warm, comforting shadow, one I want to lean into. I grip the handles of the rolling pin and follow orders. The dough begins to spread out before me in a nice, thin layer.

“Perfect.” Jack exhales at my neck. “Just like that.”

I absolutely do not think about her saying those words—perfect, just like that—in a very different context, her husky voice and her sweet moans of pleasure. But then, without meaning to, I arch back, and I feel the solidity of her body against mine. For one second, it’s rough fabric and muscles and heat.

And then Jack is across the kitchen, as far as possible from me, stirring the fudge again.

“Keep going,” she says, her eyes fixed on the saucepan. I keep going, rolling out the dough until it covers the countertop, hoping she didn’t notice the part where I tried to rub up against her like a horny cat.

“So…” I watch the dough spread out before me. “You’re opening a bakery.”

Jack’s only response is the sound of her stirring spoon accidentally hitting the edge of the pot. I swallow. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s not my place. Maybe once, when we were something else to each other, but now—