Loving Kinnick (Rewritten)

I Guess You Could Say I Was Making Love

Kinnick navigated through my kitchen with his blue eyes sparkling at the different baking tools my momma collected over the years. I found him the muffin pan, making his hands collide with excitement as they rubbed together. A smile spread across my face as I watched the tattooed boxer beam underneath the golden lights hanging from my kitchen ceiling. My chin rested on the palm of my hand as I leaned forward, watching him place everything in order according to the blueberry muffin recipe on his phone.

Nothing intrigued me more than the man standing in front of my kitchen becoming giddy over baking and how he was the same man everyone in the streets feared. It didn't make sense to me, but the boxer allowed me to see a side of him nobody else would ever get the chance to. And I adored everything about him. From the tattoos etched into every inch of skin to how his smile makes my heart happy.

His eyes lifted from the device in his hand as he stared at me. "Uh - are you going to help?"

"It doesn't look like you need it."

His eyes rolled. "Get over here, loser."

A chuckle left my lips as I hurried to his side. "Don't call me a loser, Kinnick."

He called out the ingredients as I mixed them in a bowl. "These are going to be the best blueberry muffins you ever had."

"Mhm," he sassed as if I was lying.

My mouth dropped as I turned to look at him with disbelief. "What are you implying?"

His right eye dropped into a wink as he cracked an egg. "Keep your eyes on the ingredients, Boston."

"Don't flirt with me then."

He bumped my hip with his own. "I can't help myself."

I smacked the spoon against the bowl, splattering the batter everywhere. He jumped as I got it on his face. My laughter filled the kitchen as the mixture dripped down his skin. The look in his eyes told me to run, but I wanted to stay and look at the tattooed boxer who had flour all over his black clothing and batter on his face.

"You think this is funny?" He snorted. "Get over here."

He shot toward me with the mixing spoon in his hand. The breath of air was stolen from my lungs as I gripped the edge of the counter and launched myself in the other direction. His laughter rang through the room as he begged me to stop running away from him.

"I am so out of shape," I choked.

A gasp left my lips as his arm snuck around my waist, yanking me into his chest. Before he could bring the spoon down to smear the batter across my face, I shoved my hands upward, involuntarily smacking him with the wooden utensil. My palms covered my mouth as I stared at the man with batter all over his face.

"Boston Bennett," his lips darted out, licking the batter off his mouth. "Why is it salty?"

"Your attitude?" I looked up at him with furrowed brows. "I don't know. You tell me."

He pushed me away, snorting. "The batter, dork."

"Well, you were the one telling me what ingredients to put in it!"

"I didn't tell you how much," he cocked a brow at me.

"Now whose fault is that?"

"How much baking soda did you use?"

"Three teaspoons."

His shoulders dropped as he looked at me with wide eyes. "Are you kidding me?"

My head hesitantly moved back and forth. "No."