Chapter 4
Alexei
Iwasn’t lying. For the next two-and-a-half hours, I do exactly what I’m told, when I’m told, and how I’m told.
And, fuck, I love every moment of her attention on me.
Her flour-dusted hands guiding mine through shaping dough.
Her patient, precise teaching method as she demonstrates and corrects me.
Every one of her crisp, sharp, raspy commands rake down my spine and makes me itch to get this job done so I can turn the heat up in this kitchen in a completely different way.
She takes such pride in what she does, what she’s built that I can’t help but feel a burst of pride for her. Under all that armor is a woman who pours herself into every ounce of pastry she mixes, and I want to crack through that shell and discover every hidden part of her heart.
“It’s not perfect, but it’ll do,” she mumbles, reviewing my attempts to pinch the dough around the edges of the pie tin the way she does. “Every Crust & Crumble pie is handmade. Handcrafted. Almost all of them by me. It’s a little… odd having someone else touch my pies.”
“You never have any help around here?”
She shakes her head as she ladles filling into each pie shell, measuring each one down to the gram.
“Other than a few seasonal hires during busy periods, I like to do things myself. It lets me keep control over everything. Quality, standards, flavor, customer satisfaction. Every pie and every review I get is mine. A reflection of me, my efforts, my work.”
“Your heart.” I say, nodding as if I understand completely.
“What do you mean, my heart?” She doesn’t glance up from where she loads up the tray with pies.
“You bake each pie with love. All the women in my life have always said that food is the language of love.”
“I bake each pie with precision,” she counters. “It’s science. Not emotion. All the emotion comes later, when people gather around it and recount all the things they’re thankful for this year.”
“Is that why you do it? To bring people together?”
She shoots me a sideways glance, heedless of the white slash of flour across her cheek. My fingers itch to swipe it off, but I keep pinching and twisting to form the desired crust. Last one of the night.
“Yeah, I guess. I just… I do it so I can be part of family celebrations. Knowing all these people around town are going to gather, feast, laugh, and even fight around something I’ve made, it makes me feel,”—she pauses, her green eyes search the ceiling for the right words— “I don’t know, like I’m part of it in some small way.
Thanksgiving is the one holiday people gather just to celebrate togetherness and reflect on the good stuff—everything they’re grateful for. ”
I think about that for a moment.
“Interesting. Our family never really slowed down except on New Year’s. Between our father’s business travels and Leo’s hockey schedule, there never seemed to be any time.”
“That’s why I like Thanksgiving. We take time out to give thanks. Most of us, anyway.”
“Honestly, I thought most Americans just liked the time off,” I admit. “For me, as an outsider, Thanksgiving always felt excessive. Overflowing food, stretchy waistband pants, Black Friday deals. Maybe that’s because I didn’t grow up here and never really… did Thanksgiving.”
She stares at me, open-mouthed. “So, you’ve never had a full Thanksgiving dinner?”
“No. Never even had pumpkin pie until I tasted yours earlier today.”
“That wasn’t a taste. Not a real taste.” She frowns.
“In the past, Thanksgiving’s always just been another day.” I give her a sheepish grin. “Most of the time, I just used it as quiet time to catch up on work. But the way you talk about it, I can see the appeal.”
She blinks. A timer chimes, and she spins automatically, pushing buttons, pulling out just-baked pies and popping a new batch in.
“Okay, last batch in. Can’t believe we’re going to make it—provided there are no more major disasters.”
Then she dusts her hands off on her apron, sets the timer, and heads for the enormous fridge. When she comes out, she’s touting a pre-sliced pumpkin pie.
“While we wait for this last batch, we’re gonna fix this Thanksgiving-sized hole in your life,” she says.
I laugh. “Is it so important?”
“To me? Yes. Are you allergic to anything?” She pauses as she plates up the pie and pulls a fork out of a metal canister. “Guess not, since you ate my filling without even asking about allergens.”
“Your filling was delicious,” I say, trying not to choke my laughter when her ears go pink again. “And no, I have no allergies.”
She clears her throat and sets down the plate with a generously sized slice on the counter. “Good, great. Wash up and come here, then.”
“As you wish, my chef.” I hurry to do as directed as she rolls her eyes, then I join her at the counter and stare at the pie slice.
“This is a classic American pumpkin pie,” she says, turning the plate.
“Most will use tinned pumpkin, claiming it’s got better flavor, but I disagree.
I always use fresh pumpkins, roasted. It’s a lot of effort to go through to make it all from scratch, even the whipped cream topping.
But I think all the extra work is worth it. ”
“Seems the judges of Beach’s Best Taste awards may agree, huh?”
“We’ll see,” she answers, scooping up a mouthful of pie and lifting it to my lips. “Open up, Aslanov. Have a proper piece of pie.”
“Yes, my chef.” My gaze doesn’t move from hers as I open my mouth for her. She feeds me the forkful, eyes locked on my mouth as I bite down around the fork and she slides the utensil free.
She’s standing close enough for me to smell her—sugar and spice and everything that’s so fucking nice. My cock grows thick and hard against my jeans, pressing painfully against my zipper while she watches me eat. I’m dying to touch her, to pull her close and kiss her, but I hold still.
I roll the pie around my tongue, savor the buttery texture of her shortcrust, and nearly moan at the just-right-spice layered into the custard.
“It’s spicy-sweet,” I say, reaching over to smooth the smeared flour from her face. “A bit like you, huh, Meg?”
Her eyes are twin flames, boring into mine as the heat between us cranks up another notch.
She barely breathes. “What do you think?”
Her mouth is plush, open, and so soft I have to run my thumb across it. As I do, my gaze flickers to hers, and I murmur, “I want more, Meg. I want you.”
“Fuck it,” she says, tossing the fork over her shoulder. It falls to floor with a loud clatter as she grabs a fistful of my shirt and brings me close. “Be quick, Alexei, because I won’t forgive you if you make me burn my pies.”
Then her mouth’s hot and hungry on mine, and all I taste is her.