Chapter 17 Butter Ratios and Bum-Shaped Hearts
Butter Ratios and Bum-Shaped Hearts
Alyssa
Alyssa had always been a sucker for holiday traditions.
It was the one soft spot she’d allow herself, and only when it could be justified as “enrichment” for the dogs at the shelter.
Gingerbread bones. Reindeer-shaped biscuits with carob noses.
One year she’d even tried to make little edible Santa hats, but the icing glue had melted into a terrifying blood-red sludge that stained the entire puppy room.
The photo made the rounds every Christmas, much to her eternal mortification.
But this time was different. This time, she was baking with Evelyn.
They’d arranged it at the Christmas party—or rather, after several glasses of champagne and a particularly successful round of dancing, Evelyn had mentioned she’d never baked dog treats before.
Alyssa, riding high on the success of the evening and feeling bold, had immediately offered to teach her.
Evelyn had agreed with that soft smile that made Alyssa’s stomach flip.
That had been three days ago, and Alyssa had been second-guessing the invitation ever since.
She stared at her phone for a full minute, re-reading the text she’d just sent. “Kitchen’s ready for you. Wear something you don’t mind ruining.” She almost added “xoxo,” then deleted it in a panic. She wasn’t a twelve-year-old. Jesus.
The clock barely hit seven when a knock rattled the mobile home’s thin door. Alyssa opened it to find Evelyn clutching a roll of branded Crawford’s Pet Supplies baking parchment and, inexplicably, a leather-bound portfolio.
“Tell me you’re not here to make a PowerPoint about gingerbread men,” Alyssa said, only half joking.
Evelyn’s lips quirked. “If you’d seen the state of the last staff cookie day, you’d understand why I’ve drawn up an action plan.
” She stepped inside, trailing cool air and the faintest hint of sandalwood perfume.
“Bug!” Evelyn crooned, spotting him sprawled in his customary patch of sunlight by the kitchen table.
Bug roused with a groan and padded over, eyes gleaming with that weird Cocker Spaniel mix of tragedy and calculation. He gave Alyssa’s calf a perfunctory nudge, then sat at Evelyn’s feet and thumped his tail.
“He’s always been a traitor,” Alyssa said.
“He knows where the best treats are.” Evelyn dropped to her knees, ruffling Bug’s fur.
Alyssa’s throat went tight, the way it always did when she saw people with their dogs, but this felt different.
Maybe because Evelyn looked so at home, kneeling in her carefully pressed shirt, her hair coming loose already, talking to Bug like he was the only thing that mattered in the world.
“Wow,” Alyssa said, shaking herself. “Okay. You’re here to bake, not seduce my staff.” She nudged Evelyn’s hip with her foot, gently. “Let’s get started.”
The baking supplies were already lined up: flour, butter, sugar, ground ginger, cinnamon, treacle, half a bottle of vanilla because Lil had “liberated” the other half for an experimental eggnog.
Alyssa handed Evelyn an apron—a spare from the shelter, emblazoned with cartoon corgis in Santa hats—and took a moment to admire how it looked on her.
Ridiculous, is how. Ridiculous and, for reasons Alyssa couldn’t articulate, heart-wrenchingly adorable.
“Have you ever actually baked from scratch?” Alyssa asked as she measured out flour.
“I once made a soufflé for my mother’s birthday. It exploded.”
“Exploded?”
“In the literal sense. Glass and hot egg custard everywhere. Mum found it hilarious. I cried for a week.”
Alyssa snorted. “You’ll be fine. These don’t even require eggs, just lots of upper body strength.” She pantomimed kneading dough.
Evelyn rolled her eyes but let herself be guided through the steps. The first challenge came with the butter. Evelyn approached it like a surgical procedure, cutting precise cubes with a knife she’d apparently brought from home—because of course she had.
“Are you measuring those?” Alyssa asked, watching Evelyn line up butter squares like tiny soldiers.
“They need to be uniform,” Evelyn said, not looking up. “Otherwise the dough won’t incorporate properly.”
“It’s just gingerbread.”
“Everything deserves precision.” Evelyn held up a cube, examining it critically. “This one’s slightly larger. It’ll throw off the ratio.”
Alyssa bit back a laugh. “You’re aware we’re making cookies for dogs, right? They don’t care about butter ratios.”
“I care about butter ratios,” Evelyn replied, and there was something so earnest in her voice that Alyssa felt her chest go warm.
Bug, sensing an opportunity, positioned himself strategically between them, eyes tracking the butter with laser focus.
“Don’t even think about it,” Alyssa warned him.
Bug’s expression suggested he was thinking about it very much.
The rubbing-in process became a minor battlefield. Alyssa demonstrated first, fingertips working the butter into the flour with practiced ease. “You want it to look like breadcrumbs,” she explained. “Nice and crumbly.”
Evelyn’s technique was methodical, working the butter into the flour with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb. Alyssa, watching her, couldn’t help but smile at the intense focus on her face.
“You’re overthinking it,” Alyssa said gently.
“I’m being thorough.”
“You’re treating it like a science experiment.”
“Baking is a science,” Evelyn countered.
Alyssa reached over and placed her hands over Evelyn’s, guiding them through the mixture. “Feel the texture? When it’s like this, you’re done. You don’t need to be quite so…precise.”
Alyssa was acutely aware of how close she was standing, the warmth of Evelyn’s body next to hers, the faint scent of her perfume mixing with cinnamon and ginger. She swallowed hard.
“Right,” Alyssa managed, stepping back quickly. “You’ve got it now.”
Evelyn’s cheeks were slightly flushed, though whether from the warmth of the kitchen or something else, Alyssa couldn’t tell.
The treacle incident came next. Alyssa had warned Evelyn about the stickiness, but nothing could have prepared either of them for the chaos that ensued when Evelyn tried to measure it out.
“It’s not coming out of the spoon,” Evelyn said, shaking the utensil with increasing violence.
“You have to warm it first—”
Too late. The treacle released all at once, splattering across the counter, Evelyn’s apron, and somehow, inexplicably, Bug’s left ear.
There was a moment of stunned silence.
Then Alyssa started laughing—proper, gasping laughter that made her double over. Evelyn stared at the treacle carnage, then at Bug, who was attempting to lick his own ear with limited success.
“This is a disaster,” Evelyn said, but her lips were twitching.
“This is baking,” Alyssa corrected, still laughing. “Welcome to the chaos.”
Evelyn picked up a tea towel and dabbed ineffectually at the treacle on her apron. “I’m going to smell like Christmas for a week.”
“Could be worse.”
“How?”
“Could be dog food. Trust me, that smell doesn’t wash out.”
They cleaned up the treacle—mostly—and continued. The dough came together eventually, despite Evelyn’s continued insistence on precision and Alyssa’s cheerful disregard for exact measurements.
“How do you know when it’s ready?” Evelyn asked, poking the dough ball suspiciously.
“When it feels right.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer I have.” Alyssa pressed her thumb into the dough. “See? It springs back a bit, but it’s still soft. That’s perfect.”
Evelyn tried it herself, her expression shifting from sceptical to surprised. “Oh. That is quite satisfying.”
“Right?”
They wrapped the dough and put it in the fridge to chill. Bug, having given up on treacle opportunities, had relocated to his sunbeam and was watching them with the patient resignation of someone who knew the good bits were still to come.
“Twenty minutes,” Alyssa said, setting a timer. “Want some tea?”
“Please.”
They sat at the small kitchen table, mugs warming their hands, flour still dusting their clothes. The mobile home felt smaller with Evelyn in it, but not in a bad way. More like the space had rearranged itself to accommodate her presence.
“I haven’t really done this before,” Evelyn said quietly. “Baking, I mean. Not properly. Just that one disastrous soufflé.”
“Not even at Christmas?”
“Especially not at Christmas. I always left it to the professionals—caterers, bakeries, whoever Mum hired.” She traced the rim of her mug.
“Mum used to make these elaborate gingerbread houses. She’d spend days on them—royal icing, sugar glass windows, the works.
I’d watch, but I never actually helped. I was always too impatient.
Wanted to skip to the decorating without learning the basics. ”
“Did she ever let you try?”
“Once.” Evelyn’s smile was soft, sad. “I made an absolute mess of it. The walls collapsed, the icing went everywhere. But she helped me salvage it, and we put it in the centre of the table like it was a masterpiece. She said it had character.”
Alyssa reached across and squeezed Evelyn’s hand. “It probably did.”
“Maybe.” Evelyn squeezed back, then seemed to realize what she was doing and pulled away, clearing her throat. “Anyway. That’s why I’m rubbish at this. No experience.”
“You’re not rubbish. You’re just…structured.”
“That’s a polite way of saying controlling.”
“I was going for ‘thorough,’ but sure.”
The timer went off, breaking the moment. They retrieved the dough and began rolling it out—another source of creative differences.
“It needs to be exactly five millimetres,” Evelyn insisted, producing a ruler from somewhere.
“Where did you even—never mind.” Alyssa shook her head. “It doesn’t need to be exact.”
“Everything needs to be exact.”
“Not everything.”
They compromised at approximately five millimetres, which Alyssa could tell physically pained Evelyn to accept.