Whisk Me Away

Chapter Ten

Regan was not a person who was often annoyed with herself. Sure, she made mistakes, just like every other human being on the planet. She fucked up on occasion. But she rarely held on to such things. Normally, she picked herself up, dusted herself off, and moved on. Mistakes happened. They were part of life.

But yesterday? Holy crap, had she fucked up. And this is exactly why I should not be allowed to do shots.

She shook her head in self-deprecation as she rolled out the dough for her pie crust. Why she’d let Madison and Paige talk her into doing shots when they were out, she wasn’t sure. No, that was a lie. She knew exactly why: because she was frustrated with Ava and the state of things. She knew one shot would relax her, take away some of the stress she’d been feeling. Of course, then one shot became two, and then there was pressure because Madison wanted to do one more. And then Paige got teary because she was missing her husband, and so they did another shot.

It was all downhill after that.

She picked up the dough and flipped it over, then floured it and rolled some more as she stifled a groan and tightened her jaw.

So far downhill and so fast.

She’d stripped. In front of Ava . Just…took her damn clothes off. All of them. Paraded around naked! Okay, she didn’t actually parade , but she’d walked from her bed all the way across the room to the bathroom. Naked. And to make matters worse, she’d forgotten to bring a clean towel in with her. Liza’s household staff had collected towels that morning, laundered them, and brought them back, and as Regan had stood in the shower being absolutely mortified that she’d done what she’d done, she’d suddenly remembered the pile of towels she’d vaguely noticed on the end of her bed and realized she had nothing in the bathroom to cover herself with. There was no way in hell she’d ask Ava for her help, so she’d had no choice but to waltz back out into the room—this time not only naked but dripping wet—to grab a towel, wrap it around herself, and go back into the bathroom. She’d managed to avoid looking at Ava, though she did pass a mirror on her way back and was pretty sure she was being watched with an amused grin.

Goddamn, she was embarrassed.

“A little less flour.” Liza’s voice was close enough to startle her. She hadn’t realized she’d made her way to Regan’s station. “Don’t dry it out.”

“Right,” Regan said with a nod. “Right.” She knew that. About the flour. But her mind was elsewhere. Thankfully, Liza moved on.

Across the aisle, Ava was working on her own crust and was clearly frustrated with it—as evidenced by the fact that she picked it up off her counter, crumpled it into a ball in her hands, and threw it in the trash with some force, her assistant looking on in obvious surprise. Ava’s lips were pressed tightly together as she pulled her mixer forward and, from what Regan could tell, started over again, just as Liza approached.

“Yikes, isn’t this your third go-round?” she asked Ava, who nodded as a pink circle blossomed on each cheek. “Do they never serve pie in your five-star restaurant?”

Ouch. Regan watched Ava’s throat move as she swallowed and said something Regan couldn’t quite make out.

“Maybe the third time’s the charm.” Liza grinned, then moved on to Maia’s workstation, Ava watching her go.

Regan followed Liza with her eyes, noticing her smug smile as she thought how unhelpful she’d been to Ava. She didn’t want to have sympathy for her, but she couldn’t help herself. Wasn’t this a retreat? Weren’t they there to learn from Liza? From what Regan had seen, Liza had been wholly unhelpful, and when she glanced over at Ava, her eyes were wet. In front of her, Vienna cleared her throat to get Regan’s attention. She’d been watching, too, and her expression said she was as angered as Regan about what she’d just seen. She met Regan’s gaze, shook her head, and turned back to her own pie.

Madison’s workstation was behind Regan’s, and she heard her cough. When she glanced back, Madison was looking at her with wide eyes. “That was cold ,” she whispered, and Regan nodded her agreement.

At the stove, Hadley was stirring the rhubarb, cooking it down so they could add it to the strawberries, and her eyes also followed Liza as she moved from station to station. Her expression was hard to read, but Regan was glad she wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the whole exchange.

Over the next couple hours, Regan and Hadley put together three pies. Vienna did four. Madison and Paige each had two, though Paige had also struggled and had to restart one of hers. Maia did four. While Regan was pulling her triple berry out of the oven, Ava was just flopping her raw pie crust onto a pie plate, heart-wrenchingly behind the others. Her face was still red, and her forehead glistened with what was likely nervous perspiration. Becca, her assistant, had spent some time trying to get conversation flowing but had given up nearly an hour ago and instead was running all over the place, clearly doing her best to be helpful. Ava’s was the most silent station in the space.

She made two pies. Becca must have been in charge of fillings, as every time Regan had hazarded a glance, Ava was working on crust. Becca filled the two pie crusts, and Ava slid them into the oven, looking so relieved, Regan wouldn’t have been at all surprised to see her fall right down on the floor, a heap of exhausted muscle and bone.

Liza had spent the time wandering, offering pointers (to some), and judging. Regan had hoped she would make pies along with them so she could see her technique up close, but that didn’t happen this time. She merely wandered, watched, snarked.

“I think these are gonna be delicious,” Hadley said to her, clearly keeping her voice down a bit, probably to keep Ava from feeling bad.

“Triple berry has always been my favorite,” Regan said, scrutinizing the surface of theirs. She’d used a crumble topping to give it more texture, and the oats had browned nicely. “I can’t wait to have a piece.”

“Same,” Hadley said with a grin. “And have the others taste it. It’s one of the things I like most about baking: the sharing.”

“Yeah? Me too. It’s a big part of why I started baking in the first place. I grew up in a pretty busy household.” She smiled as she thought about her family. “I have a little brother and a little sister, plus my parents and my grandpa, all in the same house. So every time I baked something, I had lots of people to taste-test. And then when I got good at it, they would fight over who got to taste-test.”

“Aw, that’s so sweet,” Hadley said.

Across the aisle, Ava was finally pulling her pies out. Regan hadn’t been able to see what kinds they were going in, but coming out, at least one was cherry. She could tell by the latticework on top—and she found herself surprised that after all the redos and stress, Ava had taken the time to do a latticework on top of one of them. Good for her.

Liza had left them while their pies baked, but now was back, standing at the front of the room in front of her own station. “I trust all pies are now out of the oven?” Her eyes were laser-focused on Ava, who simply nodded and kept her chin up.

Jesus, Liza was all over her today. What the hell was that about?

* * *

Ava felt sick.

Like, she seriously might throw up. Her stomach churned, and she had a sour taste in her throat, and if Liza singled her and her failure out one more time, she was going to hurl. There was not a doubt in her mind.

She wasn’t sure why she was surprised at the intensity. She’d watched Liza Bennett-Schmidt on television for years, and whether Liza was cooking herself for an audience or had someone to teach on her show, she pulled no punches. She was rarely gentle. She was often critical. She tended to zero in on one person and they became her focus. Today, it was obviously Ava. A little bit of Paige, who also struggled with her crust, but mostly Ava. But this was a retreat . The point was to learn from her, right? Maybe she missed torturing folks on TV.

Of course it would be pie. Ava never could make a decent pie crust, as she’d told Becca. And Paige. There was some kind of disconnect in her brain or something, because she had never been able to get it right. And to answer Liza’s snarky question: No, they did not serve pie in her five-star restaurant. Because Ava was the one who made the dessert menu. So there.

Painfully aware of the subtle peeks and quick looks sent her way by her fellow retreat attendees, she kept her head up and did her best to stay busy, washing dishes, putting things away, wiping down the counter. Five times. Possibly six. Becca had already done so. In fact, she’d been a godsend, doing any little thing Ava asked of her. Thank God she’d been there.

The rest of the day went as expected. Liza tasted everybody’s pie, left Ava’s for last, and was less than impressed. Then the remaining pies were taken up to be served after dinner.

Funnily enough, people seemed to like her pies. At first, she assumed their compliments were out of pity, but when she tasted her own cherry pie, she was surprised to find it was damn good. Even the crust. Huh.

Of course, after dinner and conversation—during which she listened more than participated—everybody was exhausted from the day and headed up to their rooms.

That meant alone time with Regan. In any other circumstance, there would be more dread, but she was so flat out done with the day that she didn’t even have the energy to care. She headed upstairs, into their room, and flopped face-first onto her bed.

“Rough day,” Regan commented as she came in behind her and shut the door.

Ava groaned into the blankets without lifting her head.

“Listen, Liza was a bitch to you. That was totally uncalled for.”

Ava turned her head to look at her roommate.

“We couldn’t say anything during dinner because, you know, May’s and other sets of ears were around. But we did some texting and whispering when you were baking your pies. She was awful to you. Unnecessarily awful. Everybody thought it was totally not cool.” Regan held her gaze for a moment before lifting one shoulder and adding, “I’m sorry you had to deal with that today.”

“Thank you,” Ava mumbled, her voice not as muffled by bedsheets.

With a nod, Regan grabbed some clothes off the floor, went into the bathroom, and shut the door, leaving Ava wallowing on her bed, with no desire to move.

She felt like a wrung-out dishcloth, damp and shapeless, and she lay there, doing nothing but breathing.

And thinking.

Because that was the curse of the person whose brain never stopped, wasn’t it? Of course Regan would have everybody’s number so they could text. Ava had nobody’s number, and that had been by choice. But now she kind of wished she had at least one. Maybe Vienna’s? She seemed serious and professional, on the same page as Ava, right? And she probably still had Regan’s number in her phone from way back, unless she’d changed it.

With Regan still in the bathroom, Ava sat up and grabbed her phone. She scrolled through her contacts and there it was: Regan Callahan. And now she was curious. With a sigh, she typed out a text.

Hey, thanks for being nice to me on an epically shitty day. She followed it up with a smiling emoji. No hearts or funny faces. Just something simple. She hit send before she could talk herself out of it. She reached to set her phone on the nightstand when it buzzed in her hand.

Welcome. And the same smiling emoji.

Same number, apparently. Ava smiled and set the phone down, then pulled out her laptop just as the bathroom door opened. Regan’s face was pink and freshly scrubbed, and Ava could smell the mint of her toothpaste. She was wearing thin boxer shorts and a tank top, her nipples making it clear that there was no bra because these were her pajamas. Ava forced her eyes back to her laptop screen and tried hard to ignore the sense memory from seeing Regan’s bare breasts not once but twice.

After clearing her throat, she spoke. “Hey, what haven’t we done yet? I’m looking some stuff up so I’m ready for the rest of the week.”

“Good question,” Regan said as she tossed the clothes she’d been wearing onto the floor next to her still-open suitcase. “Let’s see.” She gazed off into the middle of the room and counted on her fingers. “We did scones.”

“Twice,” Ava pointed out.

“Twice. Right. And I still suck at them.”

“Same,” Ava said with a snort.

“We did sweet bread.”

“Not to be confused with sweetbreads.”

Regan grimaced. “Valid. We did soufflé.”

“Which I rocked.”

“You did. That was dreamy. And we did layer cake. Which we rocked.”

“True story.”

Regan squinted, then added, “And macarons.”

With a sigh, Ava said, “I wish we’d do those again. I struggled.”

“Same.”

“That leaves a lot.” Ava typed into her laptop. “There are a million cookies. We’ve done no chocolate.”

“Danishes. Muffins. Bagels.”

Ava glanced up. “Have you made bagels?”

“I have. They’re complicated, but delicious when you get ’em right.”

Ava nodded and typed some more. “Streusel. Custard. Tarts. Holy crap, there’s a ton left. I have no idea where to even start.”

“I have an idea,” Regan said as she padded in her bare feet to stand next to Ava’s bed. “What if we just watch some episodes of Whisk Me Away? That would at least give us a refresher on Liza herself, what she likes and doesn’t, her favorite stuff. That could help.” Then she shrugged, as if trying to say it was no big deal whether Ava thought it was a good idea or a shitty one.

“I think that sounds like a fantastic idea.” And it did. Ava felt a renewed sense of energy. “Let me get comfy like you and we’ll sit and watch?”

“Perfect.”

Ava pulled herself up, grabbed her pajamas, and headed toward the bathroom. For the first time all day, she didn’t feel beaten up, embarrassed, or wiped out. As she closed the door, she glanced at Regan and felt a surprising emotion.

Gratitude.

* * *

If somebody would’ve told Regan six months ago that she would eventually be sitting in her jammies on a bed next to Ava Prescott while they watched Whisk Me Away together, she’d have told that person they were off their rocker. She would have laughed and laughed and laughed.

And yet.

There she sat, on Ava’s bed, under the duvet ’cause the house felt a little drafty tonight. She was in her boxers—and might’ve dressed differently if she’d known that was where she’d be, because her thigh was pressed up against Ava’s. At least it wasn’t skin on skin. Ava had been smart enough to wear pajama pants, thank God.

“Snickerdoodles,” Ava said, yanking Regan out of her zoning.

“Huh?” She gave her head a subtle shake, trying to get back to the present.

Ava turned those dark eyes to her. She’d put on her glasses, and whether Regan loved her or hated her guts mattered not at all, because Ava was fucking stunning. No makeup, hair down, glasses on, and fucking stunning. There was no question. “They’re a stupidly simple cookie, but Liza seems to love them.” She returned her gaze to the laptop screen balanced between them on their thighs. “I wonder why.”

“’Cause they’re freaking awesome?”

Ava grinned. “Maybe that.”

God, she smelled good, too. Regan tried to be subtle with her inhales, but Ava smelled like summer, and as she sat there, she tried to put her finger on each distinct scent. Sunshine, suntan lotion, sand, salt, grass…none of it made sense. How does a person smell like sunshine, for fuck’s sake? But Ava did. Somehow, she did, and it was wonderful and warm and comforting.

“Oh!” Regan pointed at the screen. “Those lemon tarts. This is the third show where they were featured somehow.”

“Third?”

“I’ve seen them twice on older episodes, and now they’re on this one.”

“Good catch.” Ava was keeping a list on her Notes app, so she jotted down lemon tarts.

They watched quietly for a while, going from episode to episode and doing their best to mix up the seasons so they could see what things Liza repeated. Soon, they had a list of half a dozen items.

“I’m sorry,” Ava said, breaking their quiet.

Regan turned to her, but Ava stayed watching the screen. “You’re sorry? For what?”

There was a beat, and it seemed to Regan as if Ava was gathering something—courage, words, breath? She turned to Regan, and the eye contact was intense. “For causing you to get fired.”

Regan knew she looked surprised because she felt it, like a little zap of electricity had been shot through her. “You are?”

Ava nodded. “I was young and out to make a name for myself. And I didn’t yet understand that a kitchen is a team, that instead of simply excising a piece that isn’t fitting, we need to help shape it so that it does. I didn’t learn that until a couple years later, but you took the hit for my ignorance. I’m really sorry about that.”

Regan sat there blinking at her, stunned into silence.

Ava laughed softly. “I can see by your wide eyes that this wasn’t exactly something you thought I might say.”

“Not in a million years,” Regan said with a grin. “Wow.” She had to clear her throat of the unexpected lump that had lodged there. “Thank you. That—thank you.” There was more she could’ve said. She could’ve told Ava that it was fine because she found a much better place in Sweet Temptations, that it was someplace she did fit, and that her boss had helped to mentor her instead of getting angry, that he was retiring and she wanted so badly to buy the place but wasn’t sure if she could. But she didn’t. She stayed with the simple words of gratitude, along with a gentle smile.

“One more episode?” Ava asked, and her relief was almost tangible, like it hung in the air around them a bit before it floated away, leaving a clearly lighter Ava sitting on the bed. It made Regan happy for some reason.

She glanced at her watch. “I’m up for one more if you are.”

With one nod, Ava found another episode and hit play.

Regan had no idea when she’d actually dozed off, but when she opened her eyes, she had a moment of confusion. What time was it? Where was she? Who was sleeping on her? Slowly, it all came back to her, and when she glanced at Ava, she saw that she, too, had fallen asleep. They’d both apparently slumped down as time went on, and Ava’s head was pillowed on Regan’s shoulder, her breathing deep and even. The laptop still balanced on their thighs, and the episode playing was not the one they’d chosen. In fact, it was several episodes into the season, Regan knew because she’d watched the show dozens upon dozens of times. When she looked at her watch, she flinched in surprise.

It was after three in the morning.

Her brain told her she needed to get up. To wake up Ava, to close the laptop, to move to her own—probably really cold—bed. Her body, on the other hand, did not want to move at all. Why? it reasoned. It was warm. Cozy. Not alone. Clearly, Ava felt the same way. Why move?

An internal battle raged. Her brain versus her body, and she felt like she herself had little say in the matter. She reached down and closed the laptop, completing the darkness of the room. Ava shifted in her sleep, burrowed a bit closer, and didn’t wake up.

Regan’s eyes grew heavy while she debated what to do, and somewhere deep in her mind, she knew the decision before it was even made.

She drifted back to sleep.