When Simon came home for lunch one day and found me cooking naked, he didn’t know what to do. We’d been living together for three months, but for some reason, he’d never been home when I’d baked.
Which shouldn’t have been a big deal at all, except for this fact: I always bake in the nude. It relaxes me.
“What’s up, Dana?” He eyed my apron, the rounded tops of my breasts barely hidden, the curve of my waist accentuated by the tightly tied apron strings.
I had flour on my arms and chocolate on my lips and my fingers were sticky with dough. The oven had made the kitchen hot, and my cheeks were flushed and pink, easily seen because I’d tied my long, black hair off my face with a rag ripped from cheesecloth.
“Baking cookies,” I told Simon innocently, turning to get a stick of butter from th
