Chapter 48
Mari
“Can I open my eyes yet?” Kas says with a note of impatience.
Our arms are looped together as I guide him through the parking lot to where his surprise awaits. After a very successful weigh-in, Kas scarfed down a salty rice bowl with grilled chicken to carb up and gulped enough water to fill a pool so he’d be alive enough to go on our date.
“Not yet,” I say, bringing us to a gradual stop outside of a giant building with wide, glass windows spanning the exterior.
Inside, various couples are chatting eagerly together in a waiting area near the reception desk. I squeal excitedly and move so I’m in front of Kas instead of having my elbow hooked in his. A loved-up couple amble their way inside to join the others and I nudge Kas to the side of the door so they can enter.
“Who was that? Where are we?”
Kas straightens with uncharacteristic panic. It encourages my smile to grow. I circle him, playfully trailing the tips of my fingers around the circumference of his torso. Kas reaches out for me a couple of times and fails to catch my arm when I pull away just in time.
I take advantage of his closed eyes and assess the man I’ve grown to love. Kas wears a slightly oversized polo shirt that frames his broad shoulders; it pairs nicely with some jeans on the fashionably baggier side too—way too nicely. And with his hair all fluffy?
Perfect.
“Relax, Kas. I’m not taking you to a ... I don’t know? A Vegas chapel to wed. I’m taking you somewhere fun.” I rotate him so he faces a small signboard and release his forearm to position myself in front of it. “Okay, open your eyes!” I exclaim.
Kas’s pink lips unfurl into a grin as he blinks his eyes open. “A chapel? Wouldn’t hate that,” he jokes.
He steps back a little to assess my outfit, like he’s picturing me with the addition of a white veil. It wouldn’t pair too badly in my denim miniskirt and sleeveless, shirred top. The cowboy boots encasing my feet also add a little—oh, god. I can totally see it. I shake my head to remove the seed I’ve planted in my head.
Kas laughs and looks to the left of me. “Couple’s Cooking Competition ... Passionate Pastries,” he reads from the sign with a growing smile. “No- fucking -way.” He draws back a little as he studies the sign again and looks to the entrance of the building. “We’re baking?”
“Ta-da!” I extend my arms and wriggle them at the sign like a magician revealing his final trick. “My gift to you because you ...” I walk up to Kas and poke my finger into his chest. “ You deserve it.”
Kas eyes are wide, shimmering blue pools of admiration. It’s like he’s seeing me in a way that’s different to how anyone’s seen me before. I feel like I’ve gifted him something more than a date because he looks at me like I’m his entire world.
His next words confirm that exact thought when he says, “I can’t believe the universe placed you here at the same time as me.”
Kas smiles down at me and presses a kiss to my temple, then my lips.
Does he understand the gravity of his own words? My heart is about to launch itself through my rib cage and he has no idea.
“I can,” I respond breathily.
Kas laces his fingers with mine and we enter the building with my heart still knocking against my chest.
“So, as I said, you’ll be following the recipe for a dozen French eclairs. The extra ingredients you can add are in front of me,” says the charismatic host and instructor of tonight’s event.
His giant chef’s hat is like a beacon as he struts around the room between various workstations each equipped with an oven, baking equipment, and base ingredients to bake French eclairs. Kas and I have made our own game of bingo where we count how many times he flexes his baking residency in France; so far, ten times.
Much to Kas’s favor, this is for advanced bakers, and we have around four hours to create our own twist on a French eclair. Every couple must select one ingredient from the front of the room to zhuzh up the recipe and claim victory over the others.
“During my residency, Jean Claude gave exactly one hour and thirty minutes for me to complete this task ...”
“Eleven,” Kas and I mumble at the same time.
After a few more minutes, every couple is prepared to race to the table of ingredients at the front of the room that served as the focal point for the French eclair demonstration we followed at the start of the session. There’s a selection of fresh berries, espresso powder, coconut flakes, a bag of pistachios, and some liqueurs all ready for us to take.
I pity the couples that decided to come for a chill date night because Kas and I might be the most competitive people around.
“Pistachio,” Kas whispers from my side. “You’ll get to it faster than me.”
I nod, my eyes latching onto the packet of nuts at the front of the room from our workstation, the farthest one away. As soon as the instructor says go, I sprint to the main station. I successfully pinch the pistachios and throw them at Kas when I’m halfway back to him.
“What’s the plan?” I pant, whizzing around the counter so fast, I bump into Kas’s side.
He studies the ingredients on the counter and the preheating fan oven beneath radiates a warmth against my shins.
“I make a fucking killer baklava. I’m thinking a baklava French eclair. Choux, pistachio filling, cream, syrup.”
My mouth gapes and I spear Kas with my best look of appreciation for his ingenuity. “You are the smartest man alive.”
He smiles distractedly, indiscreet with his eagerness to get stuck into his Frankenstein-esque baklava French eclair. “I need you to pulse some pistachios. Not into a paste, we want them a little chunky,” he orders.
He flings a dish towel over a broad shoulder, and I’ve never seen anything hotter than a domestic Kas. We need to scrap the Unfriendly Ghost title and change it to Domestic God.
“A little chunky,” I repeat with a noncommittal bob of my head. Kas’s brow furrows with focus as he stirs something in a saucepan. “Got it, Chef,” I say with waning confidence.
Kas smiles down at the choux mixture in front of him, and I silence the beating of my heart by blending the hell out of some pistachios until they’re a little chunky.
Exactly four hours later, our dessert is sitting perfect on our spick-and-span workstation. The time constraints left many couples with presentation issues, but not us. Our eclairs are filled with a basic pastry cream and a pistachio filling.
Every couple was also provided with a bar of cooking chocolate, which we used as a glaze for the eclairs with a sprinkling of the remaining chunky pistachios. To put it lightly, we’ve won. I know we’ve won because losing isn’t an option for us.
The instructor goes from station to station, acknowledging each eclair with small critiques and encouragement that leaves couples buzzing with hope of claiming the win. Kas grasps my hand when the instructor’s polished shoes click across the white, tiled floor toward us. A large bottle of champagne is in his hand, ready to be planted on the station of the winning couple.
“We made a baklava-inspired French eclair. Inside is a layer of vanilla pastry cream, and a layer of pistachio filling with a simple syrup, and chocolate drizzled on top,” Kas explains.
A proud grin spreads across my face at his confident introduction of our masterpiece. The instructor assesses the pastry and slices into the dessert with a deft cut. Kas continues holding my hand, and I stroke my thumb over his skin in silent reassurance.
The instructor takes a bite and presses his eyes shut on an elongated hum of satisfaction—something he didn’t do with any of the other desserts.
“Yes!” I shout prematurely, earning a chuckle from the other couples.
Kas’s eyes crinkle with a big smile, and we’re forced apart by the instructor who places the bottle of champagne next to our dessert and works himself between us to grasp our wrists, raising them triumphantly. The room echoes with applause and the second the instructor moves from between us, Kas picks me up in an all-encompassing hug.
“Couldn’t have done it without you, S?oneczko,” he whispers.
“You totally could’ve, all I did was blend pistachios and eat the leftover ingredients,” I say, kissing the corner of his lips.
As we pack up the desserts into some provided containers, Kas takes it upon himself to feed me one of our eclairs in the exact same way he fed me kabanos all those weeks ago when we were nothing more than a couple of slightly acquainted coworkers.
Kas’s happiness when watching me scoff down our creation radiates off him in waves—even if there’s more cream on my face than in my mouth.
Couples filter out of the room, and the final pair are deep in conversation with the instructor who escorts them out.
Kas cups my chin, and I jolt as he kisses the cream off my lips. “You had a little something ...” He motions to my lips with a grin. “Tastes better like that, sweeter.”
I swipe up a dollop of cream with my pointer finger and trail it across his lips.
“You have a little something ...”
I pull him down to my level by the front of his T-shirt as I echo his earlier statement. Kas doesn’t blink; his eyes are frantic and wide with desire. I smash my mouth on his to tongue the cream-filled seam of his lips with long, slow swipes. Kas vibrates under my touch, moaning like we aren’t in the middle of a public workshop.
I pull away when the familiar footsteps of the instructor sound from outside of the doors. He enters a few seconds later, and I smile up at Kas’s dazed face.
“You’re right, much sweeter,” I agree.
“You guys did absolutely brilliant. I’ve never had a couple make such a brilliant dessert,” the instructor praises as he starts placing unused ingredients into a large box.
Kas and I mumble a humble thank you. Kas looks almost annoyed by his presence, even though we’re the ones who need to go and find a room.
When I pack up the last eclair, I scoop up a small finger pad-sized bit of cream and dot it once on the center of my lips. Kas stares at me with an intensity that has me cocking my head, challenging his next move. Without averting his heated eyes, Kas clears his throat and asks one very loud question to the instructor.
“When’s the next one?”