Chapter Twenty-Eight
Garett
I tiptoe as I walk into the cookery school. She’s going to be pissed off with me.
Her curses sound into the corridor. “Why won’t this fucking work? You piece of shit.”
I stand in the doorway and take in the scene before me. There’s buttercream splattered across the countertop and the floor. Her back is to me, and her ponytail swishes as she shouts more expletives at the icing bag she grips tightly in her hand. She’s trying a piping technique on paper that I haven’t seen anywhere but on YouTube videos of the most advanced professionals. There are master patisserie chefs who don’t bother with it. The thing is, I know how to do it. A particular celebrity chef judge with anal bead necklaces taught me it.
Again, I debate helping or walking away.
“I know you’re there, Garett,” she yells, although she doesn’t look up. “Either get off the pot or fuck off.”
“I don’t think that’s the phrase.” I remove my coat and put on the apron hanging by the door before I walk to the counter. I use a cloth to wipe the frosting from the floor. Strands of blonde hair stick to Ruby’s forehead. “What are you trying to do?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” She slams the piping bag onto the counter. A glob of frosting squirts from the bag, but it doesn’t reach the freshly cleaned floor. Still, she refuses to look at me. Maybe it’s stupid, but I slowly roll my shirt sleeves. They’re in her eyeline, and she loves staring at them. “Is this the time to be a dick?”
“It’s as good a time as any.” She lifts her head, and her eyes lock with mine. I wasn’t trying to turn her on but to break her from the anxiety that owned her. She’s a ball of stress and won’t achieve anything if she can’t recentre herself. My forearms can help, although I usually listen to Taylor Swift when I need to regroup. “Do you want me to go?”
She shakes her head. There are tears in the corners of her eyes. I resist the temptation to pull her into my arms. “Music?” I ask.
She shrugs. That’s enough. I select a pop playlist and take the piping bag off her. “Your buttercream isn’t thick enough. If you want to do the Faringdon technique, it must be robust enough to hold its shape.”
“I know that, but I’ve added powdered sugar, and it’s still not holding.” She slumps against the countertop, her head in her hands.
“You overmixed it, and it’s too warm in here. Let’s make it again.”
“I know all this. I’m better than this.” There’s marks on her hands where she’s pinched her skin, and those tears are threatening to flow from the corners of her eyes.
“Because you’re too in your head. Are you panicking about the competition?”
“Yeah, kind of. I guess. You could be less annoying.”
"Noted, Chef," I bark, hoping it makes her laugh. She sighs loudly and glares at me, but there’s a twist on her lips as if she’s trying not to smile.
We mix the buttercream to a Hailee Steinfeld song I recognise as one of Flora’s favourites. It doesn’t take long before Ruby moves her hips to the tune. Her shoulders bob as some of the stress eases.
“When I’ve fucked up in the restaurants where I’ve worked, it’s not due to my techniques but because I’m wound up about something. You can learn and practice techniques for days, but you’ll struggle and fail if you’re anxious. How did you relax when you got stressed before?”
She raises her eyebrows quickly, and I shake my head.
“Not that,” I warn.
She laughs. “Don’t worry, I won’t make you do that.” I long to ask precisely what that is and if she’ll explain it to me slowly before acting it out with me. I squeeze my lips together to stop asking anything that can get me into trouble. “I also tried mindfulness, but it’s not for me. My mind never stops.”
“Same.”
We spend the next half an hour practising the Faringdon technique. She was correct; she knew how to do it. I’ve never baked with people before Ruby. I’ve taught plenty of times, but my cooking was always high pressure and about showcasing what I could do like an overperforming teenager.
I like creating without pressure more than I realised.
“Have you ever baked while wearing headphones? It always grounds me, which is why I’m playing this. I used to have a playlist for energising me and one for calming me. I also add a scent to my shirt to give me a different focus.”
“Cinnamon,” she exclaims with a grin.
“Yes, and something else.”
We start tidying up, but I don’t want the evening to end. She might not let me bake with her again. I check the clock. It’s already getting late. We’ve been here for three hours.
She licks her lips and breathes me in. She’s so damn sexy. I avert my eyes. This isn’t what I’m here for.
“I can’t work out what the other smell is.”
“You will,” I reply covertly.
“I’ll get it out of you eventually,” she says, popping a bit of frosting on my nose from our practised biscuits.
“I don’t doubt it.” I dip my finger in it and lick it off. Her eyes are tight with frustration that she can’t get to me, and soon, she’s picking up icing sugar between her fingers and tossing it at me.
“It’s like that, is it?” I grab some and chase her around the kitchen.
She squeals in delight. Suddenly, we’re on either side of the demonstration bench. Her eyes light up as she swishes her fingers under the tap, ready to flick water at me, but instead, I reach forward and fling icing sugar down her blouse.
“That’s for earlier when you teased me.”
“You were a dick,” she says between laughter as she throws water at me. Droplets collect in my curls.
“It’s what I’m good at.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” She’s walking back around the demonstration counter.
I throw my hands in the air. “Hey.”
She grabs an iced biscuit and shoves it in my face like a cream pie.
“You cheeky cow.”
Frosting covers my nose as I peel off the biscuit and wipe it across her lips before popping it in my mouth.
“You bastard. Maybe you should help me reach all the icing you’ve got on me.” She runs her finger through the icing on my face and slides her finger against her neck. Arousal rushes me as I lean down to suck on her neck. She braces herself, her hands wrapping around my biceps.
The desire that’s toyed with me all day overwhelms me. I brush my lips against her skin. The taste of vanilla frosting mixed with her scent of passion fruit makes every part of my body ache with need.
But then her brother’s reaction in the pub and her response pushes through my consciousness.
“Ruby, we shouldn’t. I don’t want to cause problems in your family, and I can’t give you a relationship.”
Ruby sighs and leans against the counter. “I know. I like you, Garett, but you’re right. Sorry for getting carried away. And sorry for saying I didn’t need your help with baking. I was rude. It’s the family stuff.” She gives me a tight smile, and I nod. “Shall we tidy up and head off separately?”
As much as I’ll do the right thing, the hardest part of me tells me to head to her little cabin in Amber’s back garden and share everything I’ve imagined doing with her.
But I can’t.
Instead, I nod.
I owe Ruby’s family more than I can repay. This isn’t how to thank them. And I can’t offer her a relationship or a future. We must stay away from each other, or we’ll be ripping each other’s clothes off. Our inability to resist each other is in her lingering gaze as we tidy, and it’s in mine every time she bends over or reaches for something that I should help with.
Tidying up takes less time than expected, and soon, we’re ready to leave. We step outside, and Ruby yelps.
“Kath was right,” I stutter.
Inches of snow blanket the car park. It’s not powdery stuff like icing sugar. It’s more like thick buttercream. It must have started minutes after I entered the cookery school and continued heavily since.
There’s no way we’re going anywhere tonight.