Chapter 3 Baking Mistakes
Baking Mistakes
Sadie
Do not cry. Don’t do it! Don’t you dare cry!
A fat tear slid from my lashes and trailed through the flour dusting my face.
Dammit!
Rowen’s gaze wandered over the mess on the floor, to the misshapen scones waiting to go into the oven, which had somehow jammed. My fingers throbbed where I’d burned them fighting with it.
The kitchen was a total disaster—a fair reflection of the Hot Mess Express that was my life.
What was I thinking? Making cookies at my grandma’s house on school holidays did not make me qualified to bake in a commercial kitchen.
I was definitely getting fired. My stomach churned, sending waves of nausea through me. My new boss gaped at me, and finally opened his mouth. I couldn’t help my flinch as he cursed.
“I’m sorry!” I blurted. Choking back my tears, I set the tray down and took a step toward him.
The coffee cup in his hand exploded and hot bean water splattered the floor, quickly soaking into the layer of spilled flour. I winced. That would be a bitch to clean up. Rowen didn’t even seem to notice.
“What happened?” he asked stiffly.
“I was shaping the scones, and then they kept sticking,” I tried to explain. “And then I couldn’t get the trays in the oven, and I knocked over that bin of flour, and everything just fell apart!” My voice thickened with tears as I lost my battle and another droplet trailed down my cheek.
His jaw ticked. “Sadie, have you ever worked in a bakery before?”
A headache stung behind my eyes and my fangs ached as my entire body tightened. It was a fight-or-flight response, and I badly wanted to flee, but I couldn’t. I had to face the mess I made—figuratively and literally.
“No.”
“Figures,” he said, crossing his arms. The paper he was holding crumbled in his fist.
Yeah, he was totally firing me. But that meant I had nothing to lose, and it was time to sacrifice my dignity.
“Rowen, I’m really sorry. I thought I could do it. I still think I could if I had a little training. I’m a fast learner, I swear. I’ll work so hard, I’ll even work for free to replace these ingredients and make up for the time it takes to train me!”
I’d go hungry if I didn’t have any pay or any time to get blood, but it would be worth it in the long run.
His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his expression tense. His eyes stayed resolutely on the ground.
“I don’t know if I can trust you,” he said quietly.
My heart dropped.
“Please.” Taking another step toward him, I clutched my hands together, begging. “I can’t find another job at night. I just moved here and I’m almost out of money. I need this job. I promise I’ll do right by you.”
His thick ruby brows furrowed, a line forming between them. Those brown eyes, warm like honey, narrowed as they rose up my body and finally reached my eyes.
“Please,” I mouthed, pushing my lip out in a pout and fluttering my lashes.
The tendons in his forearm flexed as his fist tightened and released. The delicious scent that was uniquely Rowen thickened in the air as he fought with himself.
I wasn’t above dropping to my knees, but considering our recent makeout session, it would probably come off wrong. Instead, I squeezed my hands together at my waist, my nails digging into my skin as I waited for him to pass judgement.
Rowen let his breath out in a long, low huff. One of his big hands scrubbed over his face.
“We can give it a try.”
I suppressed a squeal of joy.
“The Pumpkin Festival is coming up soon. By this time next week, I need you to be able to help, and I won’t be able to give up any extra time teaching. Otherwise we won’t be ready for the event in time.”
“So I have five days or so,” I summarized. “And then I have to be ready to rock and roll.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” he muttered, pushing his fingers into his hair. “This is probably a mistake.”
“You don’t know how much this means to me,” I said, unable to help the tears that continued to trail down my cheeks. Without thinking, I raised my hand to wipe them away, and winced at the burn.
“What is that?” Rowen snapped, his tone freezing over.
“Oh, nothing. I just got myself on the edge of the oven.”
“Come here and let me see.” The command in his voice sent a wave of heat through my stomach.
My knees wobbled as I crossed the small space. He held his hand out expectantly. Praying that I wouldn’t tremble like a damsel in distress, I raised my arm and twisted it so he could see the angry red marks down the side of my palm and pinkie finger.
He leaned down, examining the injury and sending my heart rate racing when I felt his breath on my skin. “You burned yourself?”
There was no need for me to confirm. It was obvious. His warm eyes flicked up to mine for a split second before he wrapped his hand around mine, completely enveloping it.
I flinched, expecting the contact to hurt, but a tingly feeling flooded my fingers. I wanted to sag in relief as the pain disappeared entirely, leaving my entire arm feeling fizzy.
“Thank you,” I said breathlessly.
“Maybe don’t touch the oven,” he said, releasing me.
Ignoring the urge to roll my eyes, I pulled my arm back and flexed my fingers. “Thanks for the tip.”
All I got in return was a grunt. Rowen strode to the oven and grabbed a mitt. It was unfair that he still looked handsome even with an oversized, quilted oven mitt over his hand.
With confident movements, he yanked the trays out and poked at the half-baked scones. Most of them he slid right back in, but one tray he tossed onto the counter. The oven door closed with a soft thud.
“Those need probably fifteen minutes. Maybe less. I’ll keep an eye on them.”
“I can set the timer,” I said, shifting closer to the counter and selecting one of the timers. They were the manual kind, like my grandmother had. He didn’t say anything as I twisted the dial to fifteen and set it back on the countertop.
Desperate to get us back to a friendly state, I asked, “So where did you get the healing magic? Can all witches do that?”
Silence stretched as Rowen retrieved a broom and dustbin. Just when I thought he might not answer at all, he cleared his throat and said, “My mom is a healer. My dad’s side of the family are kitchen witches. I got both.”
“Oh, that’s impressive.” I took the offered broom and started sweeping in one corner, working my way in. “I’ll get this all cleaned up. Again, I’m so sorry.”
“I still have to make the cupcakes. We can get by without brownies, but cupcakes are nonnegotiable. But they’re quick, which is why they’re last.”
“Of course,” I said, doing my best to sound like I knew exactly what he was talking about. But I wouldn’t have described cupcakes as one of the quicker things to make, so clearly I knew nothing.
Sweat formed on the back of my neck as I continued to clean up the huge mess. But there was no way I’d complain. I had to show Rowen that I could handle hard work.
The witch moved around me, somehow measuring out ingredients a second time without upsetting the piles of flour and sugar I was forming as I swept.
As the batter mixed, he held the dustbin for me. The floor would need mopping, but the kitchen looked 95 percent better already. I couldn’t help my hopeful smile, but to my frustration, Rowen scowled in response.
“So what now?” I asked, arching my eyebrows.
“Can you portion out the cupcakes without making a huge mess?” he asked.
My fangs ached as I gritted my teeth. Being hungry, frustrated, and embarrassed all at once felt like one confusing, mixed-up hell.
“I’m sure I can manage.”
Rowen slapped a metal scooper into my hand—the oversized kind for cupcakes or huge cookies.
He fitted a fresh mixing bowl onto the huge stand mixer and started preparing what I assumed was the cinnamon roll dough while I used the scooper to portion batter into the waiting cupcake liners.
“Good,” he said, grabbing the tray and sliding it into the oven. The praise made me want to preen, even if he was simply being polite.
I watched in awe as he grabbed a timer and twisted it to the bake time without glancing at the numbers. Pure muscle memory.
Rowen was a wonder to watch in the kitchen. Every move was precise and powerful, and the way his arm muscles flexed as he lifted heavy bowls or reached up for ingredients was disturbingly appealing.
As he worked beside me, I admired his tattoos. His forearms were covered in simple line drawings of baking utensils and common ingredients. Stalks of wheat ran down his inner arm, along with eggs and something a bit like bamboo that was probably sugarcane.
“Keep an eye on the frosting for me,” he said, steering me toward the third mixer. Peering in, I watched butter tumble around the mixing bowl, slowly mixing into powdered sugar.
“What am I watching out for?”
“Let me know when the butter is incorporated,” he muttered as he adjusted the settings on the other mixers.
When a puff of powdered sugar jumped from the mixer onto me, I tensed, waiting for a reprimand, but Rowen was focused on the baking.
Leaning into my space, he drizzled a touch of milk into the sugar and then moved to the oven to pull out the trays of cupcakes without even glancing in to see what the frosting was doing with the milk.
Biting my lip, I peered into the huge silver bowl where a massive whisk spun in a rotating figure-eight. With the addition of the milk, the grainy balls of whipped butter and powdered sugar turned smooth, and it all blended together until the frosting was a silky, creamy texture.
“You can turn it off,” Rowen said. “If it’s done.”
“I think it’s done. Looks like frosting to me.” Reaching up, I pushed the level backward, shutting off the mixer.
“We need to portion out some white frosting, and then I want to do pink, orange, and green. If we keep the pink pale enough, we can do it all in this mixer.”