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Sansa glared up at the mixing bowl. She had baked a few days before, and she could have sworn she’d put it back in a cupboard down below… But now it was sitting on a high shelf, and Sansa almost thought she could see it laughing at her.
Turning away in a huff, she busied herself with getting everything else ready. Lemons, flour, sugar… The pan was set out and all the measuring cups and spoons were ready to be used. There was nothing left to do except get that bowl down.
She looked back up at that bowl, thinking of a way to get it down. She could ask Sandor for it, but he was asleep and Sansa didn’t want to wake him. Folding her arms, she glowered up at it.
“Want me to get that for you?” Sandor’s low voice gave her shivers. Sansa turned around, about to nod gratefully, but she saw the corner of his mouth twitching. She stared at him for a moment. He’s laughing.
“Why is the bowl up so high?” she asked, putting on an innocent face. “I was pretty sure I put it back in that cupboard.” She pointed to the cabinet she’d put it in, narrowing her eyes slightly.
Sandor shrugged. “Maybe you did put it up there.” Sansa shook her head, knowing that wasn’t true. Then it hit her.
She put her hands on the counter. “No, I don’t need your help,” she said forcefully, and vaulted up onto the counter, reaching up and grabbing the bowl from the shelf. She set it down carefully on the counter and jumped back to the floor, wincing when her foot landed a little too hard.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” he rumbled, and Sansa paced toward him, still glaring. She crossed her arms across her chest.
“Don’t put the mixing bowl so high,” she retorted, standing in front of him, feet planted firmly on the ground.
Sandor held his hands up in protest and took a step toward her. “It’s not my fault you’re so damn tiny.”
“It’s not my fault you’re so—” Sansa was cut off by a kiss. Her anger was pushed to the back of her mind as he passed his tongue over her lips, his hands sliding over her back… She could barely think. The kiss deepened and Sansa pressed herself into him, luxuriating in his touch and the heat that emanated from him. Carefully she raised her hands to his chest, palms flat against his muscles, and he pushed her away. Sansa huffed indignantly but he only smirked at her.
“Go finish those lemon cakes,” Sandor growled, giving her a push toward the counter.
Sansa didn’t speak to him for the rest of the night, telling him he'd have to make it up to her if he wanted a lemon cake.