Chapter Five
CASH
“OH, MY, NO.” Wilma tries to cover my torso with an oversized embroidered tea towel. “No, no, no.”
Only one hand is free. Her other arm cradles that horny little Thumbelina.
“Wilma.” Faye tugs the cotton lower. “Seriously. Stop fussing.”
She’s struggling too, with Dart tucked under her other arm.
They don’t lock their dogs up, but they did promise to keep them tight so we don’t have another incident.
Their tug-of-war drags in front of me. Behind the sisters, my class of ladies lean on their stations, smirking and stifling laughter.
Wilma gives her sister a sharp look. “He forgot his shirt.”
It seems only one sister peeked at my online cooking and baking lessons. The other one is totally in the dark, probably thinking this is a regular cooking class.
She doesn’t realize that flour, frosting, and a certain level of extracurricular enthusiasm are par for the course here.
Wilma glances at me. “Or did you spill something on your shirt?”
Yup. She has no idea what my brand is.
“I can have it washed and dried in no time, and—” She pauses, assessing. “In the meantime, I’m sure I can rustle up a shirt for you. I have a few of my deceased husbands you could borrow.”
That doesn’t sound appealing.
Faye’s eyes roll skyward, lids sparkling pink and silver. Her paper-thin hands clutch the towel as she yanks it closer to her.
“Did you watch the videos before we finalized the details?”
Wilma’s tight lips tighten. Clear no.
Oh, this sweet old gal is in for a shocking show.
“Wilma!” Faye hisses.
“What?” The single word is cool and unshaken with no signs of regret.
“I set it up on the iPad. All you had to do was press play.”
Wilma shrugs. “I got distracted.”
“Distracted?” Faye’s eyebrows shoot up almost as high as the cinnamon bun on her Kentucky Derby hat. “By what?”
Wilma doesn’t answer.
Thumbelina growls.
“By what?” her sister presses.
Wilma yanks the towel. “I don’t like the iPad.”
Faye yanks it back. “Let go.”
“Fine.” Wilma releases it. “Button-down or T-shirt?”
I clear my throat, chuckle, and lean closer to the two ladies. “My lessons are done without a shirt.”
Wilma’s mouth falls open, eyebrows shoot up, and her body stiffens. Her gaze darts from me to Faye and back again before she swallows hard. And her lips part like she’s going to say something, then she closes them again.
Faye’s grin spreads appreciatively.
She leans in, letting Wilma stew, and hooks her arm through hers. “Don’t let us stop you.”
She hands me the tea towel and pulls her sister aside toward the baking station they’ve commandeered for themselves.
That was an active intro to my class. I catch a few amused soft giggles.
I tie the apron low on my hips and roll my shoulders. My muscles flex under the movement, drawing a round of low, appreciative sounds from my crew of bakers.
And here we go.
My hat’s pulled low, shadowing my eyes, but I feel their gazes trace every inch of me.
Not that it’s my favorite part—never has been.
I’m here to bake, to teach, to show them how it’s done.
But u know they signed up for more than just my recipes.
I know because this isn’t the first lesson with this group. These are my diehard fans.
Breathe.
“Alright, ladies,” I drawl. “Today, we’re bakin’ something real sweet.”
I don’t look at them yet.
I let ‘em wait.
I let ‘em want.
It’s not just me, but what this cooking lesson is going to become.
That’s good.
Let them look.
Looking isn’t the same as taking.
Keep it light. Keep it playful. Let them laugh.
Laughter softens the edge.
“First rule,” I say, slow and low. “Nothing gets rushed in this kitchen.”
Little old Nettie squints over her glasses. “Those arms of yours are they extra credit, or do we get to touch?”
“Ma!” Jaclyn’s head snaps up.
“He’s a hands-on teacher,” Nettie hisses at her daughter, then winks at me. “Aren’t you a hands-on teacher?”
“Well, Nettie, I keep my hands busy with flour here. But I do give hugs after class. Strictly post-class, of course.”
“Are you going to oil up before then?” Nettie waggles her white eyebrows.
Feisty little thing.
“Oil up before then? Mother!” Jaclyn mimics her mother’s flamboyant gestures, her leopard-print sleeve swishing with the motion.
Nessie‘s eyes twinkle. “Darling, I’ve been through kitchens like this long enough to know when a man’s arms could use a little polish.”
The twins whisper in the corner and exchange wide-eyed glances. The rest of the ladies giggle.
I shake my head, laughing lightly. “Alright, hands off the arms and back to the dough. First rule of this kitchen: nothing gets rushed.”
“I am very disciplined—mostly,” Nettie whispers.
I don’t look at any of them for long, and I’ve mastered shifting the attention. I’ve done enough of these live baking classes that I’ve honed the boundaries to keep both myself and the class comfortable and safe.
“Second rule.” I peel the wrapper from a stick of butter and run my fingertip along the surface. “These ingredients do their best work when you trust them.”
I talk about the way the butter melts, letting them imagine the ingredients instead of me.
Flirting isn’t about touching. It’s about suggestion. The balance is about making them feel included without being claimed.
I’m not the fantasy. I’m the guide. And the food does the rest.
“Let’s begin.”
I grab the whisk, rolling it between my palms. The metal’s cool, but it won’t stay that way for long.
Neither will I.
“First thing,” my low tone glides across the Victorian kitchen. “We wake the yeast.”
The copper bowls are already laid out at the stations. Twelve of them polished to a dull glow.
And a dozen women abandon their classes of wine to roll up their sleeves. Their eyes follow my hands, my actions, my every tiny move.
“You don’t rush yeast,” I continue. “You invite it.”
I pour warm milk into my bowl, slow and steady. The steam kisses my chest.
I’ve learned not to rush this part either. If I move too fast, people end up watching the wrong thing. If I move like the ingredients matter, they follow that instead.
“Warm, not hot.” I glance up. “Think bathwater. Comfortable. Something you’d sink into.”
A few of them smile.
One laughs softly.
I sprinkle yeast over the surface of the liquid and don’t touch it. “Let it float and let it decide when it’s ready.”
The room hums with quiet movement as they follow my instructions.
Milk poured.
Yeast scattered.
Twelve bowls mirroring mine.
I step back and wipe my hands on a towel, draping it over my shoulder. The marble counter is cold beneath my palms. Slowly, I bend over the bowl.
“If you lean in”—I lower my voice to pull them with me—“you’ll see it start to foam.”
I notice their small movements as they lean with me.
“And if you watch real close,” I whisper. “You’ll see it swell.”
Tiny freckles dot the surface of the milk.
“This isn’t about control. It’s about attention.”
A scuffle scrapes across the floor. My eyes snap to the dogs, but they’re curled on the hostess’s lap, tails flicking.
That’s when my cute little neighbour rushes into the kitchen, cheeks pink, hair askew, and clutching a suitcase handle—my suitcase handle.
All heads swivel, but she doesn’t notice because she’s skimming the room on a mission. This moment couldn’t be any more fun.
She finds the suitcase I brought, which she thinks is full of her toys, and relief loosens her shoulders.
And then—me. Shirtless. Mid-instruction. Her eyes lock on me, and it’s different. She isn’t looking at the version I show the world.
No starstruck awe.
No careful politeness.
No mask.
Just raw, human.
Worried, yes. But still unmistakably authentic, and it’s been a long time since someone just looked at me.
“I—” she starts, then stops.
For a moment, no one says anything.
I smile first.
But I’m surprised when it’s not the grin people expect from the Naked Baker persona. It’s my genuine smile.
“You’re right on time,” I say. “Wash your hands and join us.”
Her eyebrows knit together. “I...um...”
“Afterward, grab a bowl.” With the whisk, I gesture to the empty spot beside Jaclyn. “You are here to knead some dough, right?”
A ripple of soft laughter moves through the room, easing the tension.
“Here ya are, doll.” Jaclyn slides a spare apron down the station she’s sharing with Nettie. “We set up an extra spot in case you changed your mind.”
Shay hesitates. She hesitates long and hard, eyes skirting to the suitcase behind me. Until she finally convinces herself to tie the apron around her waist.
I shouldn’t feel the excitement that pulses through me, but I do. It's so sharp it almost hurts.
Faye loops her arm in Shay’s and leads her to the sink.
Her hands tremble slightly as she scrubs them clean.
The same bright socks cover her feet. Her breathing’s heavy—probably from the jog down the hallway.
And for some reason, I notice every single detail.
I don’t want to debate why, so I turn back to my bowl.
This has always been able to distract me. But it takes me a second to recalibrate, unlike Jaclyn, who’s tossing yeast into Shay’s bowl, helping her catch up.
Hell, if she can get it together, so can I.
“While the yeast wakes up, we’ll add sugar.” I scoop it slowly and let it fall like sand. “Sugar isn’t just sweetness.” The words fight their way out, and I catch myself, silently chastising my own tongue. “It’s encouragement.”
I’m not feeling so encouraged right now. Instead, I’m convinced I’m about to ruin this class with my wandering mind.
When have I ever been this distracted during a good baking session?
I glance sideways even after I tell myself not to.
She’s staring at her bowl.
Just staring at it.
“Go on.” Her head whips up at my voice. “Sprinkle the sugar.”
Her fingers dip into the bowl beside her. Slow and uncertain. The motion stirs something in me.
Is this how it feels for them, watching me cook? This magnetic pull? This quiet desire?
“Good,” I murmur. “Now we wait.”
I move through the tables, checking the bowls and offering minor corrections.
Less stirring. More patience.
When I reach her, she’s waiting.
She shifts her back to Jaclyn and faces me. “Can we talk for a quick second?”
She wants to tell me I have the wrong suitcase. She’s panicking because of what’s in her suitcase. I should really say yes and tell her everything is okay. But then she might leave.
I’m not ready for her to leave.
“When we’re done.”
She frowns.
“After I hand out the goody bags.”
Her eyes grow wide, and before she can talk, I add, “Maybe you can help me hand them out.”
I pivot to leave, and her fingers close around my arm.
It’s instant heat. An instant reminder of earlier. A whisper that she doesn’t know who I am and how much I’m attracted to that.
The collective gasps tell her she’s crossed an unspoken line. I watch it play on her face before she retracts her arms just as fast.
“I think something is wrong with my—” She glances down at the bowl. “I’m not sure what we’re making, but it doesn’t look like hers.”
I lean in, close enough to smell her shampoo. It’s warm and sweet. Vanilla sweet.
I don’t touch the bowl. “It’s fine. Just shy.”
Her eyebrows knit together, and I see the smile she’s trying to hold back. “Just shy?”
For the first time, I think she’s relaxed, but maybe that’s because she thinks I’m unhinged.
“Baking’s a conversation. You listen more than you talk. Watch.” I take her hand and reach into the bowl.
My palm covers hers, and my focus splinters. I’m not prepared for how warm and soft her skin is.
The action goes against every fucking rule I’ve ever made.
Our fingers graze the surface of the milk, and tiny bubbles break.
“There,” I say.
Barely.
I’m just embarrassing myself at this point.
“It hears you now.”
Her eyes follow our hand, and then flick up to my face. There’s something there.
Curiosity. Amusement. Desire.
And I’m not sure how I feel about that.
I clap my hands, needing the distraction. “Now. The eggs.”
I turn away from them and take my time crossing back to my station. There’s no rush here, but it’s not the baking I’m slowing for. It’s for whatever the hell that was.
The bowl waits where I left it. I rest my hands on the counter and let the silence settle.
“Room temperature,” I say at last. Quieter now. “They need to feel wanted. Cold shocks the dough.”
Only then do I reach for the egg.
It fits my palm perfectly, smooth and warm. I roll it once between my fingers, feeling the thin shell.
I tap it on the rim of the bowl.
Not hard, but just enough.
The shell parts cleanly when I pull it open, and the yolk slips free. It sinks into the milk.
“Easy,” I murmur, more to the bowl than the room. “No rushing.”
I crack the next one just as gently. It slides in beside the first.
I don’t look up.
I don’t need to.
I can feel the attention pressing in, waiting for permission.
I set the shells aside, wipe my fingers together, then finally lift my gaze.
“Now.” I pick up the whisk and lower it into the bowl. “Let’s whisk.”
They obey my every instruction.
Sugar, melted butter, and salt are added to the yeast mixture after the eggs. Every step is executed together.
We gradually add flour, one cup at a time, and mix until the soft dough forms.
I plunge my fingers in. Perfection. Then I glance up and notice Shay using a spoon. That’s not right. But neither is her stiff and disconnected posture.
I shouldn’t be watching her, not like this, and definitely not staring.
I know that.
But fuck if I can stop.
I enjoy every second of it. It’s clear she’s not a baker. And she wasn’t watching me the entire time either.
Both things intrigue me. To the point I say the words I swore I never would.
“Shay, come up here.”
Her head snaps up, and her gorgeous eyes meet mine. “Who? Me?”
“Yes.” I step aside, making room. “Bake with me.”
A murmur runs through the group because Cash Can Cook doesn’t ask a woman to bake with him.
Not ever.
Not once.
But for whatever reason, I can’t stop myself.
She hesitates, then walks toward the counter.