Chapter Six #2
And he should be embarrassed about that email, Evan thought as he plucked the apron from Miles’ hand with barely another glance. “If it’s a requirement, I’ll be happy to wear it.”
He only looked down after he’d tied it around his waist. “Wait,” he stuttered, “this isn’t . . . this didn’t come from the kitchen.”
“Kiss the Cook” was emblazoned across the front in bright red letters. Miles only grinned, the curve of his bottom lip all the evidence Evan needed that he was far too pleased with himself.
It occurred to Evan then that while Miles had come in today, prepared to deal and to compromise, he’d made some plans of his own.
Teaching Evan to cook wasn’t a spontaneous idea he’d just come up with.
He’d planned for this to happen, even to the extent of buying and bringing this ugly apron in for Evan to wear.
“Looks good,” was all Miles said before he turned away, but that was enough. Evan had already seen the amusement in his gray eyes, and he had to force down the answering blush.
“Thank you,” Evan said stiffly.
He would’ve had to be dead not to be affected by some of the things Miles said and did.
The reluctant attraction he felt had come through loud and strong, in between all the silly insults and the angry kiss.
But Evan already knew it would be dangerous to let Miles kiss him again.
Maybe too dangerous, especially not when Miles had just proved that he was perfectly capable of arranging his own manipulative plans.
Evan would never know if anything that developed between them was real or if it was just Miles trying to gain the upper hand in their power struggle.
That was why it couldn’t happen at all.
Evan picked up the paper Miles had scribbled the show ideas on and pointed at the first line.
He needed to remind both of them that this was a professional—not personal—relationship.
“This is what we’re doing today?” He hesitated, already thinking of how he’d stumble over the French. “Pain au chocolat?”
“Oui, pain au chocolat,” Miles answered absently, absorbed as he arranged the ingredients he’d just fetched from the pantry on a rolling cart.
Unlike Evan, French rolled off Miles’ tongue naturally. Evan was reminded that one of the bullet points on his resume was several years studying and working in Paris at one of the great patisseries there.
Evan had never been to Europe. His childhood had definitely never afforded him a chance to travel, and he’d spent his entire adult life clawing his way up by his fingernails. There had never been time or money to indulge any of his fantasies.
Hearing Miles speak such careless and perfect French was another reminder of how different they were, and how Miles could never find out just how different.
“Do you speak fluently?” Evan asked before he could swallow the question back. Like he needed any more vivid dreams of those long, pliant fingers running across his skin, hypnotic murmurs of French in his ear.
“Not as much as I should,” Miles admitted. There was a hint of a smile on his lips, like he knew what Evan was thinking—and he couldn’t, Evan knew that, but there was still a fearful thrill that he might still figure it out. “Everyone kept speaking English.”
“Well that was a waste,” Evan said.
“I’m assuming you don’t,” Miles said.
Obviously Evan didn’t. The way he’d butchered the pronunciation of the recipe name would have given that away instantly. He spoke a little Spanish, because you’d have to be painfully isolated not to pick up some, and also because he’d taken the language courses required by his university.
“It’s a goal of mine to learn another language,” Evan said.
Miles rolled his eyes. “Of course it is.”
Evan was instantly reminded of all those years of being made fun of because he’d had the nerve to excel in school, because he’d had the nerve to want better for himself. Why wasn’t that cool? Why did Miles, who’d certainly done some excelling of his own, find that lame?
But Evan had long learned there was no point in asking those questions. He’d do whatever he believed he needed to do, damn everyone else. He pushed the hurt away because there was no point in wondering why Miles would judge him for it too.
“What are pain au chocolat?” he asked, carefully attempting to copy Miles’ effortless accent.
“Chocolate croissants,” Miles said. “And they’re important because learning how to make pastry dough is vital to French baking. Also because they’re delicious and impressive.”
Evan was definitely impressed but he kept his lips pressed tightly together because he wasn’t about to tell Miles that.
“We begin,” Miles continued, “by putting the basic dough together.” He gestured to a gigantic glass bowl that he’d placed on the counter.
Evan walked over to the bowl. He was only going to follow instructions and mix some stuff together in a bowl. How hard could this really be?
“I don’t suppose you have this recipe written down yet,” Evan said.
Miles smiled and leaned against the counter, a little closer than Evan felt comfortable with, his gray eyes the warmest they’d been since he’d arrived at Five Points. He was a long, lean temptation and Evan needed him a little further away. A little more unattainable.
“I’ll walk you through it,” Miles promised. “Flour first.” He pointed to a big metal bin.
Evan tugged it over to the bowl and opened the latch. “How much?”
“Four cups.” Miles pointed to a variety of measuring cups and spoons that he’d laid out at the workstation.
Picking up the cup measure, Evan tried not to be self-conscious as Miles watched him intently measure out four cups of the flour and dump it into the bowl.
“No,” was all Miles said, picking up the bowl and dumping all the flour back in the container.
“There’s a way to measure flour correctly when baking.
” He leaned over and suddenly was right in Evan’s personal bubble, forearm brushing against his chest and plucked the measuring cup from his hand.
Despite fighting his attraction, Evan knew he was breathing heavier, while Miles, who was just as close, didn’t seem to be affected at all.
Evan didn’t know whether to remind himself of what Miles had said in the email or to try to forget it completely and believe the charade Miles was playing at.
“We fluff up the flour first,” Miles said, voice casual but precise as he took the metal cup in his hand and with a few flicks of his wrist, churned up the flour. “We want it light but uniform. Flour can clump together, making the measurement imprecise.”
Then he handed the cup back to Evan. Flour sifted gently over his fingers as he dipped his hand into the container and tried to replicate Miles’ movements.
“Now,” Miles said, snagging Evan’s wrist, his fingers making a loose bracelet around it, “you dip the cup in and level it off with your other hand.”
Flour was coating both their hands now, specks sifting down across the counter as Miles guided Evan’s movements.
Finally there were four new cups of flour in the bowl.
The amount seemed very similar to Evan, but Miles was the expert, and if he said this was how flour should be measured, then he’d do it.
“Half cup of cold water,” Miles said, releasing his wrist gently, more flour sifting to the counter, to the floor, even onto Miles’ jeans. He seemed unconcerned. Evan hadn’t thought he’d ever be grateful for the apron, but he sort of was.
Evan sorted through the selection of measuring cups, and he’d just found the right one when Miles’ voice stopped him again. “Nope,” he said. “Those are just for dry ingredients.” He gestured to the nestled glass measuring cups on the side. “These are for wet ingredients, like water.”
Not about to let Miles stop him again, Evan slowly measured water from the faucet into the cup, ducking down so his eyes could double-check the liquid had rested exactly at the little red line.
Miles gave an approving little nod as he poured the water into the flour. “Same amount of milk,” he said, and Evan dutifully measured that too.
“Wait,” he said, as he was pouring the milk in, “didn’t you make all sorts of excuses when I asked you the other day about measuring? You didn’t measure anything in those cookies.”
“You’ve got to learn the rules to break them,” Miles said a little smugly.
Evan was tempted to tell him he was an asshole, but that wasn’t exactly in the spirit of cooperation and compromise they were working on right now.
Plus, if he’d actually said it, it probably would have come out disgruntled but endeared, like he found Miles’ insistence on teaching Evan how to measure kind of adorable.
And it wasn’t. Not even a little bit. His heart just hadn’t gotten the memo from his brain yet.
He dutifully measured out the sugar, and then the salt, per Miles’ specific instructions, and then poured out the packet of yeast into the bowl.
“Last ingredient,” Miles said, pushing over a small glass bowl filled with butter.
“This is really important—more important than measuring things right. Some recipes call for room temperature butter. Others call for cold butter. You need to make sure you follow the instructions. That can make or break a recipe.”
“Like I have a recipe I’m actually following,” Evan grumbled.
Four days ago, Miles probably would have shot something grumpy and ill-tempered right back, but this time his smile was as soft as the butter.
“You’re following my recipe,” he said, and his voice edged just enough on proprietary that despite all his good intentions, Evan went hot all over.
It felt like he’d just been blasted by the heat from an open oven, but there wasn’t one. Only Miles.