Chapter 36
THIRTY-SIX
DAHLIA
The bakery at midnight was a different world.
Dahlia moved through the dark kitchen with practiced ease, flipping on the small lamp above the workbench rather than the harsh overhead fluorescents. The space transformed in the low light—shadows softening the industrial edges, the gleam of copper pots taking on an intimate glow.
Cal stood in the doorway, watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite read. He’d changed into a plain black T-shirt and jeans, and he looked almost uncertain—the confident CEO momentarily replaced by a man out of his element.
“Welcome to the midnight bake.” Dahlia tied on her apron—a worn, flour-stained thing that had been her grandmother’s—and pulled her hair back. “This is where I come when I can’t sleep. When the thoughts won’t stop. When I need to create for myself.”
“You’ve never shown anyone this.” It wasn’t a question.
“No.” She pulled ingredients from the pantry—flour, butter, salt, sugar.
The familiar motions calmed the restless energy humming under her skin.
She gestured at the kitchen, the waiting workspace.
“This is mine. Experimental recipes. Wild combinations that might fail spectacularly. Things I’d never sell because they’re too personal. ”
Cal stepped fully into the kitchen. His presence changed the space—filled it in a way she hadn’t expected. “And you’re sharing it with me.”
“I’m sharing it with you.” Dahlia met his gaze, feeling the significance of the moment. “So roll up your sleeves, bear. You’re going to learn to make croissants.”
His eyebrows rose. “Croissants? I can barely make toast.”
“Then this should be educational.” She handed him a spare apron—one of her grandfather’s old ones, faded blue denim that had survived decades of kitchen work. “Put this on. And prepare to fail spectacularly.”
Cal took the apron with exaggerated solemnity. “I’ll try not to burn the place down.”
“That’s the spirit.”
He was terrible at it.
Absolutely, gloriously, hilariously terrible.
Within twenty minutes, there was flour in Cal’s hair, on his shirt, streaked across his left cheekbone despite the fact that his hands had never gone above his shoulders.
The dough had stuck to his palms in great, glutinous clumps that required aggressive scraping to remove.
And when she’d asked him to fold the butter into the laminated layers, he’d applied such enthusiastic pressure that butter had squirted out the sides like a culinary crime scene.
“How is this possible?” Dahlia gasped through her laughter, bracing herself against the counter as Cal stared mournfully at his butter-coated hands. “You’re a CEO. You run hostile takeovers. How can you not fold dough?”
“Hostile takeovers don’t require fine motor skills.” He held up his hands, butter dripping between his fingers. “This is a disaster.”
“It’s magnificent.” She couldn’t stop laughing—the deep, helpless laughter that made her sides ache and tears blur her vision. “I’ve never seen anyone so confidently wrong about laminated dough.”
“I was following your instructions.”
“I said gentle pressure. You went at it like you were trying to subdue a hostile witness.”
Cal’s expression was pure wounded dignity, which made her laugh harder. He grabbed a towel and began wiping his hands with exaggerated care, but she caught the smile tugging at his lips. The tension that usually lived in his shoulders had eased. He looked younger. Lighter. Almost playful.
“Fine,” he declared, tossing the towel aside. “Show me the right way. I’m clearly in need of remedial education.”
Dahlia moved to stand beside him at the counter. She pulled a fresh portion of dough from the fridge—they’d need to start over with properly chilled butter—and began the demonstration.
“The key is patience.” Her hands moved with practiced confidence, pressing and folding with a rhythm that came from years of muscle memory. “You can’t force the layers. You have to coax them. Let the butter soften enough to be pliable, but not so much that it melts into the dough.”
Cal stepped closer, watching over her shoulder. His body heat pressed against her back, and she became acutely aware of how close he was. Close enough that she could feel his breath stir her hair.
“Like this?” His hand covered hers on the rolling pin, and Dahlia’s breath stuttered.
“Yes.” Her voice came out huskier than intended. “Exactly like that. Slow. Steady. Consistent pressure.”
They worked in silence for a moment, his larger hand guiding hers through the motions. The dough cooperated this time, stretching into a smooth rectangle. Dahlia folded it into thirds, rotated it, and began again.
“You make it look easy,” Cal murmured near her ear.
“It’s not. I make the hard parts look invisible.” She glanced back at him. “Isn’t that what everyone does?”
He met her gaze. “I’m starting to realize you’re better at it than most.”