If she were being completely honest with herself, Emma could admit she knew absolutely nothing about cooking, and even less about baking. Why practice such when she had a personal colony to do such for her back at home? She would not, however, be caught dead admitting that she knew nothing compared to you, that you definitely had more knowledge than she did in regards to anything food related. No, certainly not.

Perhaps it was naïve to assume she could coast through the day of baking by doing easy tasks, or just intuitively figuring it out with her wondrous frost knowledge, all the while impressing you with her wonderous knowledge of baking. Twenty minutes in and half of Emma was covered in flour from an ill fated attempt at measuring out the ingredients, lithe finger coated in the worryingly lumpy batter. "I'm sure it just needs a little whisk," she murmured, tasting the batter from said finger and deciding that no amount of whisking could salvage batter attempt number five.

Nearing the hour mark was where Emma decided to break her promise and give up on 'enthusiastically whisking', dropping the spoon into the bowl and groaning, taking a far more effortless position pressed up behind you, arms looped around your waist. Maybe you'd been sabotaging her; handing her lopsided bowls and salt instead of sugar. Probably not, but she'd much rather get her imaginary lick back than continue embarrassing herself.