Chapter 10
LEE
Ihoped that Bobby never fixed Chase’s bike because dropping Chase off after work every afternoon was fast becoming the high point of my day.
Some days there was a dirt bike or a truck in the driveway, and he got out of the truck without a backward glance, but on the days nobody was home, we took full advantage.
And the sex was great, but there was something more too.
Yesterday when I’d had him sitting on the kitchen counter with his legs wrapped around me, we’d stopped for a breather in the middle of fucking and Chase had leaned his forehead against mine.
And then his fingers had beat out a soft tattoo against my shoulders, and it had felt like more than sex.
That whatever crazy fucking chemistry had caused us to crash up against each other wasn’t as important in that moment as some newer but deeper connection that was building between us.
He’d even offered me a soda when we were done, and we’d sat on the back porch overlooking the scrubby yard that was half dead grass and half dirt, and I told him about some of the recipes I was thinking of trying at Gobble de Goose.
“I don’t know what any of that stuff even is,” he said, giving me some serious side-eye.
“It’s Filipino,” I said. “My lola, my grandma, taught me how to make them.”
“Oh,” he said. “I thought you were Mexican or something.”
“Nope,” I said. “Half Filipino, half beige as fuck.”
“I’m gonna tell your mom you said that.”
“Oh, please. Where do you think I heard it?” I took a swig of soda. “Anyway, I don’t know if Goose Run is ready for Filipino pastries and cakes.”
He shrugged. “How will you know unless you try?”
“That’s pretty much what Tyler said.”
The conversation shut down soon after that, but I didn’t mind too much because it felt like more words than we’d ever exchanged before. Not counting threats and insults, obviously.
The conversation, plus that moment we’d had when he’d rested his forehead against mine, made me think that there could be something real here. Something real in him.
I was cautiously optimistic that he’d let me sneak past at least a few of his defenses.
“If you keep whistling, I’m going to bash you over the head with a rolling pin and put you in the oven,” Tyler told me one morning as we worked.
“Dude, I was up all fucking night last night because some asshole downstairs set the fire alarm off three times. Three times. Then this morning Jess was all, ‘Oh, I’m ovulating.’” He shook his head.
“What crazy world am I living in that it feels like a chore to have sex with my beautiful wife?”
“Beats me,” I said. “You guys doing okay?”
“We used to be spontaneous, you know? Now it’s like we’re on a schedule and I’d better not mess it up.” He let out a long breath. “Ignore me. I’m in a shitty mood.”
“Want me to teach you how to make biko today?” I asked him.
“Yeah? Seriously?” He brightened.
“Seriously. I even left the rice to soak overnight.”
Tyler grinned. “Hell, yes. I love that stuff.”
I finished loading up the cookies into the oven while Tyler sliced up a tray of brownies, and then I set out the ingredients for the biko on the counter.
“Huh,” Tyler said, eyeing up the coconut milk, coconut cream, rice, and brown sugar. “I thought it would be more complicated.”
“Nope,” I said. “Okay, so first we make the latik. That’s the coconut sprinkles that go on top.”
Tyler nodded.
I grabbed a saucepan, tipped the coconut cream into it, and set it on the stovetop on medium-high heat.
“Keep stirring it,” I said. “And don’t let it burn.”
“That’s it?” Tyler asked.
“Yeah, it takes about fifteen minutes to separate,” I said. There was a reason biko was one of the first things my lola taught me to cook. It was simple. “But that’s it.”
Baking wasn’t always about making fancy shit.
Baking was about finding the balance between simple ingredients.
I always thought of that saying about the whole being more than the sum of its parts.
That applied for most things, I guessed, but there was something transformative about baking.
Even a basic pound cake was a little like a miracle—those simple ingredients coming together to create something delicious. All it took was a little bit of heat.
Outside, the bell on the front door jingled regularly as customers came and went, and I went and checked if the display cases needed to be topped up.
We were almost out of brownies, and the cookies were half gone already.
I still couldn’t quite believe that we were as busy as we were.
Part of me had been prepared for business to taper off after our initial opening, but it showed no signs of slowing down.
Chase was working the espresso machine like a pro.
He was moving easily behind the counter, like he’d been doing this for years instead of weeks.
He was cute as hell too, even wearing his customary scowl.
It was nice to see it directed at the steam wand instead of me.
He turned and caught sight of me and flashed me a quick smile.
Crazy how much things had changed between us. And all it had taken was a little bit of heat.
Warmth settled in my chest at the unexpected show of affection, but I didn’t make a big deal out of it. I went to the back and loaded up a tray with what I needed and filled the cabinets.
When I went to the back again, Tyler was still stirring the latik and the scent of coconut filled the kitchen. “Looks good,” I said, peering into the saucepan. “Needs a while longer, though.”
“It’s been fifteen minutes, though. How can you tell? Or is this one of those ‘you’ll just know’ recipes?” Tyler asked.
“Pretty much, yeah,” I said, grinning.
The timer beeped on the cookies and I unloaded the oven, and by then I could tell at a glance that the latik was perfect. It really was instinct for me.
“So separate it from the oil,” I instructed. “Don’t throw it out. You can use it to oil the baking tray.”
With the latik ready, we moved onto the biko itself. “Make sure you wash the rice,” I said, “or my lola will know, and she’ll drive all the way from Hampton Roads just to yell at you about it.”
Tyler lifted his hands in surrender. “Okay! I’m washing the rice!”
We set the ingredients over a medium heat to cook. “Keep stirring, and let me know when it thickens up,” I said.
“Let me guess. I’ll know when it’s done?”
“It takes about fifteen minutes, but yeah,” I said and bumped him out of the way with my hip. “Here, let me.”
“Fine by me.” He handed over the wooden spoon.
I settled into the unhurried rhythm of slowly stirring the rice, swirling the spoon in long, lazy drags as the contents simmered and the familiar scent wafted up, stirring up memories—some of them from childhood when I’d first been deemed worthy by my lola of holding the spoon and some of them more recent.
When Sam was undergoing chemo, there had been times she hadn’t been able to keep any food down, but biko had always worked for her.
Some weeks it felt as though she’d been living on nothing else.
I missed making biko for her, but she hadn’t wanted to touch it in a while.
I couldn’t blame her for wanting to avoid the association with chemo.
I still couldn’t quite believe that she was on the road to recovery.
A tiny, scared part of me worried that any day now she’d come home complaining of tiredness or headaches and it would turn out the doctors had missed something—which was bullshit, because Sam was getting healthier with every passing week.
It was hard to break the habit of worrying about her, was all.
I swept the spoon through the biko and inhaled the rich scent of coconut and sugar, watching the bubbles on the surface pop as the mixture simmered.
“Smells good,” Tyler said from where he was prepping the quiches for the lunch rush.
“Yeah. Takes me back to when I was a kid and we visited family,” I said, smiling at the memory. I dragged the spoon through the pan again and tapped the side. “This is almost ready.”
He loaded his tray into the oven and came over, sniffing the air. “What do we do now?”
I handed him the spoon. “Okay, pour it into the baking tray. Then it goes in the oven for thirty minutes. You want to cook it at about three seventy-five, so I’d put it on a higher shelf.
Then, when it’s done, we let it cool in the tray.
Then we cut it up and serve it with a spoonful of latik on top of each piece. ”
“You’ve been holding out on me,” Tyler said. “This really is easy as shit.”
“Well, yeah,” I said. “Because we get to buy everything from the grocery store. My lola says that she can remember her lola making it, back in the Philippines, and she’d use coconuts out of the backyard.” I turned and noticed Chase leaning in the doorway. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he said. He lifted his chin. “What are you guys making?”
“Biko,” I said. “It’ll be ready in about thirty minutes.”
He came closer. “Is that one of the ones you told me about?”
Tyler glanced at me and raised his eyebrows.
I pretended my flush was from the ovens. “Yeah. It’s like a sweet rice cake. Not like the dry, crunchy ones you get from the store. It’s more like a flat cake than a cookie.”
He looked into the pot and I waited for him to make some crack about the contents, ready to defend my lola’s recipe, but all he said was, “Smells good as hell.” Which was about as positive as Chase got, let’s be real.
“That’s because it is,” I said. “Be nice and I’ll give you some later.”
The bell over the door rang and Chase headed back out front, but I caught the ghost of a smile as he sauntered past me and said in an undertone, “You can give me some later, all right.”
I almost choked on air. “Um, okay. Tyler, get that in a baking tray, yeah?”
“Yup,” he said.
Chase smirked.
“Next batch of cookies is almost ready,” I said. “Peanut butter.”