After she got rid of these hot pans.
“Delaney, I’m going to catch fire in a second.”
“Phoebe,” Delaney said, opening two drawers at once while Avery sorted out a plan B in her head. The sink, the floor, the patio? “Where are your—”
“Here.” The familiar male voice came from behind her and made Avery’s stomach jump. By the time she glanced over her shoulder, Trace had stepped past her and opened the oven door. “Put one here.”
With burning fingers, Avery didn’t have time to process anything other than the pain and dropped the pan. She was already moving the other tray toward the rack when Trace hooked his finger around the edge and pulled it halfway out.
She slid the hot sheet to safety and dropped the towels. “Damn.”
Shaking out her hands, she gritted her teeth against both pain and embarrassment. She’d been baking for a decade, professionally for half of that, yet she was still burning herself because she’d failed to plan for something as simple as counter space? And she planned on opening a café and bakery in a few weeks?
“Honey?” Phoebe said. “Are you okay?”
“Avery?” Delaney echoed her aunt’s concern at the same time.
Avery glanced up and met Phoebe’s blue eyes, still crystal clear at sixty-five. Her indigo sweater made them pop against her creamy skin and silver hair.
“Why didn’t anyone ever tell me that shit coming straight from the oven is hot?” Avery said.
Phoebe smiled in relief, a few crinkles appearing at the corners of her eyes. Ethan and Delaney laughed.
“Here,” Trace said, crossing behind her to run the water in the sink. “Get your hands under here.”
He wasn’t smiling when he grabbed Avery’s forearm and pulled her around, drawing her to the basin.
“Cupcake, you’ve got to be careful. These hands are your livelihood.” He fanned out each palm, inspecting them as water cooled the burn. A special place warmed inside her every time he used one of the many baking-themed nicknames he’d come up with for her over the last couple of months. “You’re lucky. Doesn’t look too bad.”
Avery didn’t respond. She was staring at his profile. At the way his jet-black hair, mussed from the day, still shone like raven’s wings. At the prickle of stubble that had formed over his chin and jaw since he’d shown up at the café that morning at six. At the way that shadow framed his lips.
Oh, yeah. Trace Hutton would kiss like every woman’s fantasy. The surety of it weakened her knees a little.
He cut a look at her from the corner of his eye and caught her staring. “You okay?”
God, he was so sweet. And she was so tired. So lonely. So needy. Avery closed her eyes and focused on releasing the pent-up stress. Having him close made that easier. Having his hands cradling hers, his thumb rubbing her palm beneath the water as if erasing the burn, made it much, much easier.
“Exhausted. You?”
A lopsided grin lifted his lips. “Exhausted.”
“Seems to be our constant state of existence lately.”
“So it does.”
“You weren’t working this late, were you?” she asked.
“Not really. I had a special project I wanted to finish.”
“Is Zan
e with your dad?” she asked. Trace’s brother helped shoulder responsibility for George as best he could. But Zane’s chaotic schedule as a local deputy left most of the burden on Trace. Something Avery had never heard him complain about once.
Trace nodded.
Phoebe had inserted herself into the taste test at the kitchen table, which had transitioned into a discussion over the progress of the brewpub’s construction. With Phoebe’s back toward them and Trace’s big body between Avery and the others, Avery felt a familiar cocoon of intimacy settle around her and Trace.
Most of the time they worked day in and day out together like buddies. But then there were moments like these. Wonderful, odd, intimate moments Avery couldn’t label or define or even understand. She only knew they created a snap, crackle, and pop inside her she was sure could be heard a block away.