If Only You (Bergman Brothers, #6)(59)

Ziggy closes the distance between us and takes the rolls from me. “I was just teasing about it being bougie, having a chef and PA. Those seem like reasonable needs for someone as busy and active as you. Maybe you should look into one, a chef at least.”

I shrug, sorting through the rest of what’s on the counter into pantry, freezer, and fridge items. “I like cooking sometimes. I make big batches of things, then freeze them.”

“Well, I already asked Axel to send me his best recipes, so I’ll forward those your way when I get them.”

I glance up. “You did? When?”

“When you drove us to the bakery.”

“You just…asked your brother about that…for me.”

She gives me a funny look. “Yeah. Is something wrong? I didn’t say who it was for, just a friend. I respect your privacy, Sebastian.”

“No.” I shake my head. “No, I wasn’t worried about that, I just… That’s kind of you. To do that. Thanks.”

“Oh.” She shrugs. “No problem.” Turning back to the shelves, she adds the pantry items she’s lined up, clearly with some organizational system in mind.

“So Rooney, Axel’s wife, she feels better?” I ask. “Eating gluten-free? Like consistently feels better?”

Ziggy nods. “Yep. Hopefully you will, too, soon. Hey, do you have the gluten-free flour over there?”

I move aside the gluten-free chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream Ziggy recommended, then pick up a large bag of gluten-free flour that promises to be an easy cup-for-cup substitute in place of typical flour. “Here.”

“Toss it my way.”

I lob the bag Ziggy’s way, then turn back toward the remaining freezer items just as I hear an audible pop, followed by her gasp.

When I turn back, Ziggy’s covered in flour.

Covered.

“Holy shit.” I round the island, grab a hand towel, then bring it to Ziggy, where she stands, eyes scrunched shut, her mouth open with surprise. “Hold still. I got you.”

I wipe the flour from her face as best I can, enough that she can blink open her eyes. She peers up at me. “I said toss it, Sebastian, not yeet it at my face.”

“I didn’t yeet it at your face!”

She starts to laugh, the sound smoky and soft in her throat. “Clearly, you don’t know your own strength.”

I bite my cheek, trying not to laugh, too, as I brush flour from her hair. “You’re a mess, Sigrid.”

“Thanks to you.” She pokes my side, glaring at me.

I duck her next poke, giving her a warning look. “How was I supposed to know it was going to explode on you?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because it obviously had a hole in it?” She points to the flour trail that follows the arc of how I threw the bag. Then she lifts the bag where she dropped it on the counter, pointing to the rupture in it.

“I didn’t see that, I swear.”

“Sure you didn’t.” She sets aside the bag and glances down at the flour on her hand, then toward me, a devious smile brightening up her face. “I should get you back. It’s only fair.”

I peer down at the flour in her hand, then up to her. “Ziggy. Don’t even think about it—”

A soft pat to my face silences me. Flour puffs into the air.

I gape. “You just slapped me! With flour!”

“I tapped you,” she says, bringing her other hand to the other side of my face. Another puff of flour blooms in the air. “And now you’re symmetrical.”

“Ooh, woman, you’re in trouble.” I feign reaching for the flour past her, and she shrieks, darting away, circling the counter. Whipping around the island, I catch her by the waist and yank her toward me.

“Sebastian!” she yells, chased by a smoky laugh. “That tickles—”

“Tickles, huh?” I smile as she shrieks a laugh and thrashes when my fingers dance down her sides to her hips. “A brutal tickle is the least you deserve after that—”

“You’re the one who threw flour at my head!”

“By accident!”

She yelps as I try for her armpit, then spins in my arms before I can keep her pinned to me and dives in for my waist. I catch her wrists and hold them, lifting them away from my sides. “I’ll give you this, Sigrid, you have fast feet, but when it comes to hand-eye coordination—” I shake my head, breathing heavily. “Don’t even try to best me.”

She’s breathing heavily, too.

We’re two professional athletes. We have no business sounding this winded after a quick chase and tickle wrestle around a kitchen island.

“Something you hockey players don’t understand,” she says, pressing into me until our fronts touch and I fall back against the island counter’s edge, “that soccer players do: there’s more to a winning strategy than hard hits and brutal speed.” I suck in a breath, barely holding back the impulse to arch my hips and rub myself right into her. “It’s all about timing and pacing. Patience until that perfect moment opens up and you have the perfect shot. Like…this.”

I’ve been lulled by her words, distracted, my grip slack on her wrists. She spins her arms, deftly freeing herself, before her hands fly into my armpits.