Ashton's POV

The hand touch, subtle flirting, a cute, vague text hinting of my plan for tomorrow and my excitement level is far from wavering. It wouldn't be so bad if I had this bundle of adrenaline during the day, but it's nearly two in the morning and sleep isn't coming to me any time soon. I've dated a few girls over the years and drunkenly hooked up once or twice but never have I ever spent an evening pondering what brand lotion a girl uses to make her hands so damn soft.

It was a simple hand touch—something so trivial and shouldn't evoke so much thought. But it did. And like an idiot, I stood there awkwardly holding Ruth's hand until she told me let go. It's easy to hide my awkwardness with sarcasm, but I don't know long that will hold up. She's slowly seeping into my every thought and if I'm not careful she might start interfering with work, and the last thing I need is a distraction as invigorating as Ruth. But it's not stopping me.

She's just down the hall. It's a thirty second walk. I could go see her if I wanted to.

My feet are already ahead of my thoughts as they step out of bed, slide into my shoes, guide me to the entryway where I grab my keys, and saunter out of my apartment and down to Ruth's. My fist impatiently pounds against the door, potentially waking up our neighbors as the knocks echo down the hall. My feet bounce up and down as I wait a few, short seconds for her to answer before my knuckles make contact with the door again. With my ear pressed against the door, light shuffling and fumbling with the locks erupt from the other side.

Ruth harshly tugs the door open, which would have caused me to topple inside if I didn't pull away so quickly. Dark circles emphasize her tired state, and from the massive amount of bed head and matching pink pajama top and shorts with cat silhouettes adorning it, it's safe to assume I just woke her up. But for good reason. Selfish but for good reason.

"This is a dream right?" Ruth says, glaring at me with eyes that would put Medusa to shame as she has left me static. "Because only in a dream would someone have the audacity to knock on someone's door at two in the morning and break them out of what they consider to be a greatly appreciated rest. So, unless you are a figment of my imagination appearing in what is to go down as the most deplorable nightmare, you best have a good reason to be standing at my doorstep right now."

Even half-asleep her wittiness is on point. However, I'm more than sure if I don't come up with a plausible explanation for myself, I can kiss all chances with her goodbye. "I need you to get dressed," I say hurriedly.

"No, I need to go back to sleep. You have a lesson to teach tomorrow, so you should too."

"Please go get dressed."

"Is someone dying, hurt, or potentially trying to harm themselves?"

"No?"

"Then I'm not getting dressed," she asserts.

As patient as I am with children, my patience is wearing thin with her. I slip through the small gap between her and the door and welcome myself inside. Her shouts of disapproval only fuel my adrenaline as I go into her room and raid her closet. Grabbing whatever seems decent, I toss a pair of jeans and a shirt to Ruth, which unfortunately lands on her head thanks to her poor reflexes.

"Put those on," I order, kneeling down to the floor snatching whatever pair of shoes I see first.

"What the hell are you doing, Ashton?" she shouts, ripping the clothes off her head. "You can't just barge in here."

"I didn't barge in; I casually slipped in."

"Smartass. What are you doing here, and why are you rummaging through my closet?"

"You wouldn't get dressed, so I had to take initiative. Now, hurry up. We only have a few hours."

"For what?"

"Private lessons."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me, woman." My playful tone lessens her tension and her gaze fixates to the clothes in her hands. "Trust me, okay? I haven't let you down yet."

Her shoulders slump and she drags her feet to the bathroom but not before muttering an indiscreet 'asshole' to me. Ah, just like old times.

With some added persuasion and deep apology for waking her up, Ruth agrees to my spontaneity. A slither of hatred still consumes her as we drive downtown, but I blame her exhaustion for that. I park in the lot behind the bakery and dig out the gentleman within in by rushing to the other side of the car and opening the door for her. It's the least I can do.

"We're not breaking in, are we?" she asks, rejecting my hand as she pulls herself out of the car.

I dangle my keys in front of her. "It's not breaking in when you have a key, sweetheart." I unlock the back door to the bakery and flip on the breaker switch to the kitchen; rows of lights flicker on, illuminating the room. I'd like to say the kitchen is absolutely spotless, but the silver whisk someone left lying on the counter ruins that.

"I'm still confused why you brought me here," Ruth says, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. I never really take notice of how cold it is in here. I should have pulled a jacket for her before we left.

"I already told you. I'm giving you a private lesson."

"And you had to do this in the middle of the night? Couldn't you have chosen a better time?"

Time wasn't my concern. Wanting to see you was. "Where would the fun in that be?"

"The fun would be me sleeping and not standing here questioning if your ego has taken over your entire being and has ridden you of your judgment of sanity."

"My ego has nothing to do with this." My sanity is a different story. "Now, are you ready for your lesson?"

"Can I pick a different instructor?"

"Hate to break it to you but I'm your only option."

"Dammit," she huffs. "I guess you'll do. At least I'm not paying you."

"No, but tips are welcomed."

Her irritated demeanor fades as her playful side finally makes its appearance. This is the side that's keeping me up all hours. The side that I'm becoming more and more infatuated with each day I see her.

"So, what are we making?" she asks.

"Chocolate cream puffs but with a twist."

"What's the twist?"

"They're going to look like swans," I say. "Literally anyone can make these because they're so easy."

"You must not know me very well," she jokes.

"Not as much as I'd like to." My serious tone catches her off guard, the humor trickling down her face. "You're still a mystery to me, Ruth. Don't be so keen on this thing between us still being a game."

She shifts her gaze away from mine and turns to grab two aprons off the hook rack. She tosses one to me and ties the second one around her waist. "Can I ask you something before we get started?"

I slip my head through the neck hole of the apron, tying a sloppy knot in the back. "Shoot."

"Why do you insist on being around me?"

"Because I'm the only one who can satisfy that sweet tooth of yours."

I've never seen her bite her lip in such a way that suggests she's embarrassed. I don't think I've ever seen her embarrassed by something I've said. It's always an eye roll or smartass remark. As humorous as those are, I'd much rather see this reaction from her; this vulnerable side she hides behind her jokes and sarcasm. She needs to stop biting her lip though, because I can only restrain myself as much as the next guy and if she doesn't, I will either get a slap in the face or her lips molding with mine. I'm not ready to risk either option at this point, but I honestly wouldn't mind the latter.

Ruth helps me grab the ingredients for the cream puffs from the pantry and refrigerator. We make the pastry dough first, folding wet and dry ingredients into a mixing bowl over low heat until it thickens into a greasy dough-like substance. When I take it off the heat and add the eggs, Ruth freaks out, convinced I screwed up and broke it because the dough looks slimy as I mix them together. Silly girl; ye of little faith. With the eggs mixed in, the dough becomes sticky like it's supposed to, and I transfer half of it into a clear, plastic piping bag.

"Here," I say, handing Ruth the dough-filled bag. "Make the swans."

"I'm a kinesthetic learner," she says. "You can't just say that and expect me to know what I'm doing. Show me."

I snatch the bag back and effortlessly pipe a small oval glob of dough onto a baking sheet pan, carefully flicking my wrist to taper the end.

"That's a swan?" she asks, incredulously. "Where's the head? And the wings?"

"We'll get to that," I assure, placing the bag back into her hand. "Now, you try."

She presses the bag flat against the pan and pipes an oblong shape that's not terrible but subpar. "How's that?" She grins at the decent accomplishment. As much as I'd like to critique it and tell her the truth, that damn smile of hers and tantalizing eyes forces me to bite my tongue.

"Perfect." I let her finish off the swan torsos while I fill a second bag with the remaining dough. Once she finishes, I pull out a new baking sheet and show her how to make the swan necks and heads. "All you have to do is make a thin 'S' shape," I say slowly as I pipe an example.

She takes the bag. "That doesn't seem too hard." Her confidence is strong up until she poorly copies my example.

"Spoke too soon?"

"Shut up," she mumbles, trying to fix the neck with her finger but makes it even worse.

I stand behind her and reach my arms around, molding my hands over hers. They're still as soft as earlier if not more. How creepy would if I actually asked her what lotion she uses? Mildly? Extremely? What if it's not a lotion? What if her hands are naturally this soft? I should have taken that into account.

"Hold the bag at a forty-five degree angle," I instruct, guiding her hands with mine. "Don't try to rush it or it'll look like a snake that got run over by a car."

"Such a morbid association," she says, laughingly.

"You can't deny yours looks like a dead snake."

"Hush, you," she sneers.

I chuckle to myself and help her finish piping. With a flick of the wrist and several failed attempts because her hands are so rigid, we pipe the heads and beaks to each swan neck. While I put the baking sheets into the oven, I instruct her to start making the pastry cream and come to her aid when she can't figure out how to eyeball measurements. She's so cautious and yells that we're putting too much or not enough of each ingredient into the mixer. Ensuring that I've been doing this for years and know what I'm doing doesn't put her nervous mind to rest.

"Don't turn the mixer on too high or all the flour and powdered sugar will fly out," I warn as I pour the remaining dry ingredients into the deep metal bowl attached to the standing mixer. "Just flip that yellow switch on the side to start it."

"This one?" she asks, flipping the hard-to-miss power switch. The attached whisk spins rapidly as it circles the interior of the bowl, the high power flinging waves of white powder onto my face and settling into my hair.

I flip off the switch to the mixer and wipe my powdered mouth, distaste attacking my tongue. "I should have mentioned there are three settings," I say.

Ruth pulls her lips back, her high cheekbones rising with amusement. "Oops," she says sincerely.

"Go stand over there and let me handle the mixer." It's reasons like this that I don't normally let people touch anything in the kitchen.

"Remember, not too high," she mocks.

My thumb brushes against the switch, lightly clicking it to the first setting. Ruth leans closer towards the mixer, peeking down into the bowl. With my thumb hovering over the switch, I accidentally push it up to the highest setting. A cloud of white spews from the bowl and attacks Ruth's face. Her long eyelashes flutter, brushing the powder away from her eyes as she gapes at her messy self.

"Oops," I say smugly.

"That's not fair!" she cries. "It was a legit accident when I did it."

"Accident or not, payback's a bitch."

"You're a bitch," she mumbles, brushing out her now whitened hair.

"Is that the best you've got? I expect more from you, Ruth. Come on, hit me with your best shot," I taunt.

She reaches over and flips the switch to the mixer off, the whisk slowly coming to a stop. She dips one hand into the cream inside mixing bowl and uses the other to grab a handful of flour from the bag sitting on the counter. Her hand covered with the cream mixture smears over my face and she follows by tossing the handful of flour over it.

A satisfied smile consumes her face, pride overflowing within her being. "Is that good enough?"

I wipe the cream from my mouth and lick any excess off. "Oh, that's more than enough."

She takes two steps back before turning and sprinting away from me to the opposite side of the kitchen. Her giggles and squeals bounce from wall to wall as I chase her around the island and nearly trip as she makes a sharp turn. Ending her getaway, I jump and slide across the island counter, landing dead in her tracks. My hand clutches her waist while the other cups her chin and turns it to the side. I rub my cream-covered cheek over hers, unfazed by her pushing on my chest.

When I feel most of the cream has transferred to her, I turn her chin to the other side and repeat with the opposite cheek. Mixed with her ear-piercing screams that can potentially be heard outside, are the most melodic, jubilant laughs I've ever heard. She's clueless to how uplifting this single, unique sound of hers is.

Satisfied with my own work, I pull away, keeping only my hand on her waist. "I told you payback's a bitch," I snicker, and she waves her middle finger in my face.

I grab a couple kitchen towels from the closet near the pantry and run them under the sink faucet. After ringing the excess water, I give one to Ruth to clean her face with. It's not going to clean everything off, but it'll suffice until we go home.

"So, what's next?" Ruth asks; her cheeks slightly red from harshly rubbing the towel across her face.

"The chocolate ganache, and once the swans are ready, we can assemble them."

She yawns loudly. "Sweet." Even though she's tired, she tightly holds onto whatever energy she has left to continue. Hell, I'm starting to get tired but I'm not about to give up on this awesome and satiable moment.

It takes no more than five minutes to make the ganache, and by the time we finish, the swans are done baking. Ruth fills more piping bags with the cream and ganache, while I cut a thin layer from the top of the golden-brown, round puffs, leaving a large, hollow hole inside. Up-cycling the portion I cut off, I slice it in half to make the wings.

"Put a small amount of ganache in the hole and then fill the rest with cream," I say, subtly studying her concentrated face as she does as I say. She tucks her fallen hair behind her ear, revealing a tiny birthmark adjacent to her ear, just underneath her hairline. It's so faint and discreet that it's no wonder I haven't see it. It's cute. She's cute. Even the way her tongue peeks out as she's heavily focusing on filling the puff is cute.

"Can I ask you something?" I say, resting my elbow on the counter. "What made you this way? To hate guys? A while back, Luke mentioned you've dating some douchey guys. Is that why?"

Her hand stills, releasing the pressure from the piping bag, and she flickers her gaze to me. "I don't necessarily hate guys," she says. "I'm just cautious and observant of them."

"Including me?"

"I'm on the fence about you. You're downright annoying, but I like being around you. As for the guys I've dated, they weren't bad people per say. Some of them were grade A assholes, but some weren't."

"So, what's issue?"

"Their flaws."

"What about them?"

She drops her gaze and returns to filling the puffs. "They were unloyal, finicky, or had ulterior motives that I didn't approve of. I've never had a long-term relationship because of that. A few weeks, a couple months; inevitably my relationships didn't last. There was always something I could find about them to be put off by. Attitude, persaonality, you name it."

"I can understand how the unloyalty and ulterior motives can shape your mindset, but everything else seems normal. Everyone has flaws, Ruth."

"I know that," she says, borderline upset. "It wasn't that big of a deal with the first couple guys I dated, but as time went on, it's as though I'm looking for their flaws. Like I want to find something wrong with them."

That explains why she assumed I was an asshole when we first met. She saw my narcissistic flaw and shaped who I am around it. "Why go through all that trouble?"

"I don't want to find a flaw in someone that I won't be able to live with in the future. I don't want to be like my mom who found a single flaw in my dad—years into their marriage—and had to get a divorce because of it. I don't want to risk that possibility of thinking I know someone when later, I realize I don't."

"This sounds like it's more about your mom than it is you."

"She took my brother away from me, Ash—because of some petty flaw. She moved to a different state with him. She called to check on my occasionally, but she made a new life for herself in Nevada." She pauses. "But it's not like I'm bitter about it or anything."

"Of course," I say, playing along with her sarcasm.

She finishes piping the cream into the last puff and lays the bag on the counter. "From the time I graduated high school to now, I can literally count how many times she called me with one hand."

"That sucks."

"It really sucks," she agrees, eyeing the headless swans. "So what now?"

I grab one of the 'S's and gently press it into the cream and chocolate filled puff. I then add the wings to either side and sprinkle powdered sugar over it for decoration. "You have successfully completed your private lesson," I conclude, placing the swan in her palm.

"It doesn't look like shit," is her first comment. She studies the pastry bird and smiles to herself and then to me. "Thank you."

"I'd be more than happy to do it again."

"Make sure it's during daylight next time," she says. The best part about her conditioned response is that she's actually agreeing to a 'next time.'

As I watch her bite into the cream puff, savoring her work, the annoying ringtone to my phone blares from my pocket. Without looking at the caller ID, I press the phone to my ear.

"Hello?"

"You better hope you're not at the bakery right now because as much as we love you, your father and I will not be bailing you out of jail or paying any fines for trespassing," Mum says calmly.

"What are you talking about?"

"The manager from the pub across the street said he saw a light turn on in the bakery," she explains, and my head instantly turns to the small window attached to swing-door that is shining the light from the kitchen into the storefront. "He called to tell us that he called the police to scope out the area in case of intruders, and since my son happens to be a regular trespasser, I thought I'd give you a heads up."

"Shit."

"I don't know how long ago he called them, but you better get out of there," she warns, leaving me with a dial tone as her parting words.

Hastily, I grab Ruth's hand and pull her towards the back door of the kitchen, the half-eaten cream puff swan falling from her grasp and crumbling to the floor.

"What's going on?" Ruth asks. "Don't we have to clean up?"

"No time," I say, dragging her along as I sprint to the breaker box and turn off the lights to the kitchen and enabling the alarm system. "Police are coming."

"What?!" she panics, gripping my hand tightly. "I thought you said we weren't breaking in?"

"We weren't. Technically we're trespassing after hours." I lock the back door and we bolt to my car. Police sirens ring in the distance, heightening my fear-fueled adrenaline and forcing me to speed out of the lot onto the road to our apartment.

"I've never committed a criminal act," Ruth says, staring ahead of herself. "I can't believe we did that."

"We didn't get caught, so it's okay."

"We left evidence behind. My DNA is on that unfinished cream puff."

"Your DNA is fine," I assure. "If anyone is going to get in trouble it's me. Mum doesn't know you were with me when she called so stop worrying."

"I'm a criminal."

While Ruth wallows in a down-spiral of guilt and shame, I drive us back to the apartment complex, apologizing profusely for almost getting us in trouble with the authorities. The soft flesh of Ruth's hand brushes the back of mine as we walk to the elevator, the same hand that I held moments ago but failed to savor it. When her arm swings back, I time my hand to meet hers, successfully clutching onto it and silently enjoying the warmth of her hand in mine. She doesn't pull away or look at me like I'm crazy; she embraces it as we ride the elevator to the third floor.

"Did you have fun?" I ask.

"Apart from almost getting caught by the police, yes."

"I'm never going to live that down, am I?"

"Not a chance."

The metal doors slide open and as we near Ruth's apartment, she slows her pace. Our short walk ends sooner than either of us would like, but even when we get to her door, she doesn't drop her hand from mine.

"You know all my flaws, but you have one too, Ruth," I say, sliding a small glob of cream that is still stuck to her hair. "You're quick to judge. You're not your mom, so don't inadvertently become her because of your unwillingness to accept others' flaws." I gently squeeze her slender fingers before slipping my hand from hers and walking down to my door.

"Ash?" she calls. "I've accepted your flaws."

Exhausted and overwhelmed, I still manage to lift the corners of my lips and see my facial expression reflected on Ruth's.

_____

A/N: I'm soooooooo sorry it took a month to update. I didn't mean to take so long. I had to rewrite this chapter because I didn't like the first version of it so I scrapped it and wrote this version. At least it's sort of long. I couldn't stop smiling while writing this. They're so cute. Also, I've made these cream puffs before. They're awesome and delicious. The picture at the top is actually one of mine that I made last year. :D

Announcement! Piece of Cake is nominated in the second season of the 5sos Watty Awards along with the official 2015 Watty Awards. For the 5sos Wattys, it is nominated in the Humor and (I think) Ashton Irwin categories. I'll let you guys know when you can start voting for it.

As for the official Wattys, I'm super excited to have this story in the running. There are so many awesome authors out there and it's great to be a part of that. Please continue reading, re-read if you'd like, vote, and especially share because all that kind of reader interactivity will help me. If you also read my other story Paint You Wings, it is also entered in both Wattys, so please check it out!

Thank you all! Love you! –Rebecca xoxoxoxo