Baking With A Rockstar ✔ [COMPLETED]

Chapter Two

This time, I can tell he's trying to keep his laughter at bay, not that I can blame him for wanting to laugh at me again. I'm obviously doing a pretty lame-ass job at this whole impression thing, and I wouldn't be too surprised if I ended up with a dough ball in my face too.

Since I'm uncomfortable with the silence right now, I'm trying to fill every second of it. "So, who are you?"

I don't always make such an idiot of myself, so I might as well know who I have to bribe to never speak a word about what happened here. I mean, this guy is nothing but a bad distraction I definitely don't need in my life, but for right now, he can at least be a distraction with a name. Once I know that, I can properly bid him farewell when he leaves—fascinating abs and all.

He studies me for a moment before crossing his muscular arms over his chest. "Well, I've been gone for a few months, but the last time I checked, this was my house. So"—he points a finger straight at me and I gulp—"the real question is, who are you?"

Crap. His house? Hannah said this house belongs to one of her grandsons. After taking another good look at him, I can actually see some family resemblance. His eyes definitely have the same mischievous glint that Hannah has so often.

"Oh." My mouth stays in a perfect O-shape for a few moments—not only because I'm perplexed but also because I'm even more embarrassed now about my previous behavior. I just "doughed" the owner. Only me. Ugh. "Hannah didn't mention anything about you coming back. She said we'd have the place to ourselves."

"That's probably because I didn't tell anyone I was coming home. It was supposed to be a surprise." His eyes roam over my face, and I briefly wonder how he sees me. What an odd thought. "But it looks like I'm the one surprised instead."

Before either one of us can say another word, a loud wail comes from the monitor, blaring through the room.

He looks around the kitchen, his eyebrows drawn tightly together. "What the hell was that?"

"That was the baby monitor. Looks like my baby is up." I'm not sure how I feel about leaving him alone right now, or turning my back to him, but I hate having Mira cry even more. Taking a big breath, I give myself a little pep talk before walking over to where he stands, trying to maneuver my way around him without actually touching him. That would be too awkward. "If you'll excuse me, please."

He finally moves a little to one side, allowing me to push past him—barely. The close vicinity allows me to not only feel his body heat but to also smell his intoxicating scent. My heart skips a few beats, and I chastise myself for reacting to him at all. I like to be in control of things, and right now, in this situation, I feel anything but—least of all, my own body.

Without looking back, I halfway sprint up the stairs to the second level, panting by the time I make it all the way up. At the end of the long hallway, I open the door to the makeshift nursery—we just added a crib to the otherwise normal guest bedroom—and turn up the dimmed light.

Mirabelle—who we call Mira pretty much ninety-nine percent of the time—is sitting up, the tears from a moment ago already replaced with a big toothy grin. "Ma-ma." She draws out the syllables, clapping her little, pudgy hands together with an enthusiasm only a ten-month-old baby can have.

"Hi, cutie pie. Look at you clapping. Good job." The compliment for her newfound skill makes her squeal, which is the cutest thing ever. Seeing the joy spread across her whole face is something that will never get old.

After a diaper change and a fresh set of clothes—thanks to Mira's uncanny ability to have managed a second poop blowout today, all before ten o'clock—we go back downstairs. Thankfully, our visitor is nowhere to be found when we get to the kitchen. I pick up my phone to call Hannah and ask her about him, but it goes straight to voicemail. In that moment, I realize I still don't even know the guy's name.