I shoved him lightly in the chest, turning away quickly to hide the rising heat in my cheeks.
"That's not true," I mumbled. "I was just... busy. Tired, that's all."
Danny snorted, clearly not buying it. "Yeah, yeah, of course," he drawled, as if indulging a toddler's lie.
Before I could argue back, he pointed ahead.
"Look, that's my house."
I followed his finger, my eyes widening at the massive, modern-looking house that sat proudly at the end of the street. The windows glittered, and the lawn was perfectly manicured. Everything about it screamed money — a lot of it.
I looked, stunned.
"Is this really your house?" I blurted.
He threw me a sideways glance, lips twitching.
"No," he said casually. "It's my neighbor's."
I groaned and rolled my eyes. "Very funny, smartass."
He just chuckled under his breath, leading me up the steps. We dumped our backpacks near the entrance, and I turned to him, hands on my hips.
"Alright, go wash up. I'll get started on prepping," I said. "But—uh—where are the ingredients?"
"I'll set them up for you," he said easily.
I nodded and disappeared into the bathroom to wash my hands.
When I came back out, the kitchen counter was already lined with all the baking essentials — flour, sugar, eggs, butter.
And there he was, standing in front of them, casually tying an apron around his waist.
I almost tripped.
The apron did absolutely nothing to hide the way his back muscles flexed under his plain T-shirt. And from certain angles, it gaped just enough to show the cut lines of his sides, hinting at the kind of body you only saw in magazines.
I forced myself to look at the flour instead of him, my heart hammering.
"Okay," I said quickly, clearing my throat. "First thing... we need flour."
He turned around, catching the way I was deliberately not looking at him, and a mischievous glint sparked in his eyes.
"You sure you're focusing on the flour?" he teased, stepping closer.
"I'm focusing on the recipe," I huffed.
Danny chuckled low in his throat, and before I could react, he reached out — brushing a light streak of flour across the tip of my nose with his finger.
I gasped. "Danny!"
He just laughed, and when I reached out to swipe him back with a handful of flour, he caught my wrist mid-air with startling ease.
Our bodies tilted closer, and I stumbled a step forward — straight into him.
For a moment, we just stood there, my hand pressed against his chest, his hand still holding mine, eyes locked.
Without thinking, he dipped his head lower, brushing his nose against mine — teasing, testing.
And before I could overthink it, his lips found mine in a soft, playful kiss that tasted faintly of sugar and something impossibly sweet I couldn't even name.
It was short, a mere brush of warmth — but it stole the air from my lungs completely.
When he pulled back, he was still smiling, a little smugly.
"That's for lying about not being jealous," he murmured against my mouth.
I stared up at him, breathless, heart racing — and knew there was absolutely no way I was surviving this baking session alive.