A week after Thanksgiving, the kitchen in Trish’s house smells like coffee, cocoa, and everything sweet. The rich scent of tiramisu lingers in the air as I adjust the camera, making sure the frame is steady before stepping back. Jude’s hazel eyes are intently focused, smoothing out the top layer of cocoa powder with an easy precision that makes me bite my lip to hold back a silly giggle. His sleeves are rolled up, strong veiny forearms dusted with flour and a smudge of mascarpone near his wrist. He looks good—too good.
I bet the women aren’t just watching his videos for the baking recipes.
I exhale slowly, forcing myself to focus, trying to ignore the fact that Jude’s a walking, breathing work of art—flour-dusted and sweet-smelling, like a god disguised in an apron. I bite back the urge
