Chapter 5
Chloe
This was a mistake, and I knew that going in.
Not coming to the bakery— I don’t regret that. But I definitely didn’t think through the logistics of working in a professional kitchen with Jonah Westerland when said kitchen is roughly the size of my college dorm room and he’s... everywhere. Moving. Moving. Moving.
Even the twins don’t move around this much.
“Can you hand me the vanilla?” he asks, not looking up from the bowl where he’s whisking eggs.
I turn to grab it from the shelf behind me, and my hip bumps into his as he shifts to reach for something else. The contact sends a jolt through me that’s completely inappropriate for five-thirty in the morning.
“Sorry,” I mutter, handing him the bottle.
“No problem.” His fingers brush mine as he takes it, and I swear his hand lingers for half a second longer than necessary. “You’re doing great, by the way. Natural baker instincts.”
I snort. “I’m literally just handing you things. A trained monkey could do this.”
“A trained monkey wouldn’t make me laugh.” He glances at me, and there’s something in his eyes— something warm and teasing that I haven’t seen before. “So you’re already an improvement.”
My stomach flips. “Careful, that almost sounded like a compliment.”
“It was a compliment.” He goes back to whisking, but I catch the hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “I don’t usually let people in my kitchen. You should feel honored.”
“Oh, I’m deeply honored. Should I curtsy? I feel like I should curtsy.”
“Please don’t. You’ll knock over the flour and we know what that looks like.”
I look down and realize I’m standing about six inches from a large rolling container of all-purpose flour. “Point taken.”
Jonah moves past me to the oven, and I have to press myself against the counter to let him by. The space is so tight that I feel the heat radiating off him, smell the combination of soap and cinnamon that I’m starting to associate specifically with him. It’s doing things to my concentration.
“So,” I say, desperate for distraction, “what are we making?”
“Brioche. And before you ask, yes, it’s complicated. Yes, it takes forever. And yes, it’s worth it.” He pulls out a stand mixer that looks like it could double as a small car. “Ever used one of these?”
“I’ve seen them on cooking shows. Does that count?”
“Not even a little bit.” But he’s smiling as he sets it up, and I realize this is what he looks like when he’s relaxed. When he’s not carrying the weight of single fatherhood and running a business and trying to hold everything together. He looks younger. Happier.
I want to make him look like this more often.
“Okay, so first we’re going to—” He stops mid-sentence as I lean forward to see what he’s doing, and suddenly we’re close. Too close. His arm is against mine, and I can feel his breath on my cheek, and neither of us is moving.
“Sorry,” I say, but I don’t step back.
“Don’t be.” His voice is rougher than it was a second ago.
I look up at him, and the intensity in his dark eyes makes my breath catch. He’s looking at me like I’m something more than just his employee. Like I’m something he wants but knows he shouldn’t have.
The mixer beeps, breaking the moment.
Jonah steps back quickly, clearing his throat. “Right. Brioche. Focus.”
“Focusing,” I agree, though my heart is racing and I’m pretty sure my face is bright red.
He walks me through the process of adding butter to the dough in stages, letting the mixer work its magic while we prep the proofing baskets.
Every few minutes, we have to navigate around each other in the small space, and every time we touch, just a brush of shoulders, his hand steadying my elbow when I stumble, my fingers grazing his when I pass him a tool, it feels deliberate. Electric.
“You know,” I say as I’m dusting flour on a work surface, “for someone who claims to like keeping things simple, this seems unnecessarily complicated.”
Jonah laughs, and the sound warms me from the inside out. “Brioche isn’t simple. But it’s honest. You can’t fake it or rush it. You have to put in the time, be patient, trust the process.”
“Is that your philosophy on everything?”
“Most things.” He moves to stand next to me, showing me how to shape the dough. His hands are strong and sure, moving with a confidence that makes me wonder what else those hands are good at. “Some things are worth the wait.”
Is he talking about bread? Or is he talking about something else entirely?
I don’t ask. Instead, I try to copy his movements, shaping the dough into something that looks... well, it definitely doesn’t look as good as his, but it’s not awful… maybe?
“Not bad,” he says, inspecting my work. “A little lopsided, but you’ll get there.”
“Story of my life. A little lopsided but getting there.”
He tilts his head, studying me with an expression I can’t quite read. “You do that a lot.”
“Do what?”
“Make jokes at your own expense. Like you don’t quite believe you’re as capable as you actually are.”
The observation catches me off guard. I busy myself with shaping another piece of dough, avoiding his eyes. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do.” He doesn’t push, though. Just hands me another ball of dough and says, “For the record, you’re doing great. With the baking. With the girls. With all of it.”
My throat feels tight. “Thanks.”
We work in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the hum of the oven and the occasional car passing outside. It should be awkward, but it’s not. It’s comfortable. Easy.
Too easy.
“So,” Jonah says eventually, “what made you want to be a teacher?”
I consider deflecting, but something about the early morning hour, the dim lighting, the intimacy of working side by side makes me answer honestly. “My second-grade teacher, Mrs. Chen. She was the first person who made me feel like I was good at something. Like I mattered.”
“And you want to do that for other kids?” It’s almost a statement like he knows, but he still asks.
“Exactly.” I shape another piece of dough, getting better at it. “I know it sounds really corny, but I really believe teachers can change lives. They changed mine.”
“That’s not corny. That’s completely beautiful.” His voice is soft, sincere. “The twins are lucky to have you, even if it’s just for a little while.”
Just for a little while.
The words sit heavy in my chest.
I force a smile. “Well, I’m lucky to have this gig. Beats living on Sarah’s torture couch.”
“Right. The temporary thing.” Something shifts in his expression, but before I can analyze it, he’s moving past me again. Except this time, the space is even tighter because I’m standing right where he needs to be, and when he tries to squeeze by, his chest brushes against my back.
We both freeze.
“Sorry,” he says, but he doesn’t move away. And his solid warmth is behind me, close enough that if I leaned back even an inch, I’d be fully pressed against him. My heart gallops like the Kentucky Derby winner.
“It’s fine,” I manage, my voice coming out breathier than I intended.
I should step aside. Give him room. But my feet seem to have forgotten how to move, and he’s still standing there, close enough that I can feel the rise and fall of his breathing.
“Chloe,” he says quietly, his hand on my waist.
I turn my head, just slightly, and find his face inches from mine. His eyes are dark, conflicted, wanting.
“Yeah?”
“I should—” He stops. Swallows. “We should check on the brioche.”
“Right. The brioche.” I step to the side, finally, and the loss of his warmth feels like a physical ache. “Definitely. The brioche is very important.”
He moves to the mixer, and I watch his shoulders tense like he’s fighting with himself about something. When he speaks again, his voice is carefully neutral. “After this proofs, it needs to go in the fridge overnight. So we’re basically done for now.”
“Oh.” I try not to feel disappointed. “Okay.”
“But.” He turns to face me. “If you want to come back tomorrow morning, I’m making those cinnamon rolls. The twins love them, and I thought maybe you could learn how to make them. So you can surprise the girls sometime. I mean, if you want.”
He’s giving me an out. A reason to come back that has nothing to do with him and everything to do with Ava and Mia.
But we both know that’s not the real reason I’m here at five in the morning.
“I’d like that,” I say softly.
“Good.” His smile is small but genuine. “Good.”
We clean up in silence, moving around each other with an ease that feels practiced despite the fact that we’ve only done this once. When everything’s put away and the kitchen is spotless, Jonah walks me to the back door.
“Thanks for coming,” he says. “For helping.”
“Thanks for teaching me.” I pull my too-thin jacket tighter. “Same time tomorrow?”
“Same time tomorrow.”
I should leave. Should walk out the door and go back to the house and crawl into bed for another hour before the twins wake up.
Instead, I stand there, looking up at him in the dim light of the bakery, and say, “Jonah?”
“Yeah?”
“I like being here. Just so you know.”
His eyes search mine, and for a moment I think he’s going to say something important. Something that will change everything.
But instead, he just nods. “I like having you here.”
It’s not a declaration. It’s barely even an admission.
But it feels like something.
And I like something.