Chapter Eleven Alex #2
Noelle surveys me for a few long seconds.
‘It’s all about balance. Bitterness in particular, I mean.
’ She leans in a little closer, hesitates for a moment, and then places her hand above mine.
Warmth floods every single one of my senses as she threads her fingers through mine and then pushes downwards, forcing my hand to mimic the movement.
‘People don’t tend to like bitter foods,’ she says, guiding my hands through the motion of folding out the dough.
‘Kale, Brussels sprouts, any dark leafy green really. By themselves, they’re usually too bitter for most people to enjoy.
Combine it with something sweet—’ She pauses for a moment, fingertips ghosting along my hands as she pulls away and gives me an encouraging nod to continue with the dough. ‘And it balances out the taste.’
‘That just proves my point,’ I continue, already missing the feel of her hand on mine. ‘Nobody wants something bitter. Not by itself anyway.’
Noelle shrugs, the corner of her mouth lifting into a small smirk. ‘What about dark chocolate?’
I scowl at her. ‘That’s one thing.’
‘Pretty much every citrus fruit out there is technically bitter. Peppermint, too. And people love that.’ Something lights up behind her eyes, and her smirk widens.
‘And I, for what it’s worth, love my coffee bitter.
’ Her words are innocent enough, but there’s something in the way she says it – I love my coffee bitter – that sends a wave of unmistakable, unbridled arousal shooting through me.
If this were anyone else – if we were anywhere else – I’d take that as an invitation to cross the space between us and press my lips against hers.
But this is Noelle. My personal chef.
And we’re in my home.
Trapped in my home, if we’re being technical about it.
Whatever I think I’m reading from her right now, I know that I’m wrong.
Noelle laughs suddenly, the sound filling the kitchen and a cavern in my chest I hadn’t realised was even there. ‘And seriously, you should try smiling more often.’ She looks up at me, her gaze softening slightly. ‘You’ve got a nice one, might as well show it off.’
My heart thuds an irregular pitter patter and I try to deflect with some humour. ‘Is this a standard part of your personal chef services? Life coaching?’
‘Consider it a bonus feature,’ she replies, winking at me before turning back to her own perfect pastry creation.
The evening wanes, and the sickly-sweet smell of baking strawberries begins to permeate the air.
Noelle’s effortless skill with the rolling pin makes me painfully aware of my own clumsiness.
I watch, slightly envious but mostly in awe as she lifts the pastry with such grace, it’s practically pirouetting into the tart tin.
‘Let me help you with that,’ she offers, catching sight of my third attempt at lining my tin, which looks more like a pastry massacre than anything else at this point.
I step aside and watch as she works the dough with well-practised ease, her skilled hands moving with the kind of confidence that comes from years of dedication.
‘See?’ she says, finishing up with a flourish. ‘You were pushing the dough too hard, and it’s not about force; it’s about finesse.’
‘Finesse,’ I echo, trying to etch the concept into my brain for next time.
‘Don’t worry, I wasn’t expecting you to get it on your first time. I just wanted you to try. Baking is hard, and you’re definitely not alone.’
‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’ I quip, but even I can’t deny there’s something endearing about the situation. Her joy is infectious, and despite the irritation of being bested by some bloody dough of all things, I find myself chuckling along with her.
‘Absolutely,’ she beams up at me. ‘It means you’re human. And humans are allowed to mess up in the kitchen. It’s half the fun.’
Fun isn’t a word I’d normally associate with failure, but watching Noelle’s brown eyes light up, I reconsider its application. There’s a playful challenge in her gaze, like she’s daring me to let go and just enjoy the process, no matter the outcome.
‘And it does look good,’ she says, pointing at my dough which, objectively, looks awful. ‘I think I’ll promote you to apprentice baker. Congrats.’
‘What was I before?’
‘An unpaid intern.’
I let out a squawk of indignation, but Noelle ignores it in favour of moving on to the filling. She slides both our tart shells into the oven and then gives me free rein over the blender, instructing me to blend strawberries and water until they turn into a smooth purée.
It hits me as we work, each doing our separate tasks, that we’ve slid into something that feels comfortable.
Natural. Like having Noelle by my side in the kitchen, just the two of us working together to make a meal, is normal. Ordinary.
‘How’s it going?’ Noelle asks, peering over my shoulder.
I’ve finished with the purée and I’ve moved on to steadily adding cream cheese to the mixture.
She told me to keep going until stiff peaks begin to form and I was too stubborn to ask what the hell that even meant, so I’m stuck sneaking glances at her, hoping she’ll stop me when I get it right.
‘Fine?’ I say eventually, once it’s clear that she’s not about to jump in. The word comes out sounding more like a question than any kind of assurance. The mixture looks lumpy, and I can still see noticeable strawberry chunks dotted throughout. ‘Not entirely sure how I’ve managed to mess this up.’
Noelle rolls her eyes and detaches the stand from the mixer. ‘You haven’t messed anything up. It looks fine. Great, even.’
Another blatant lie. But, as if to prove her point, she starts pouring the lumpy mixture into a piping bag and then begins squeezing it out onto the tart. The strawberry cream splutters out in elegant swirls and Noelle gives me a satisfied nod before passing the bag over to me.
She made it look easy, but I quickly learn there’s an art to even something as simple as squeezing out icing. ‘Is it supposed to look like this?’ I say, eyeing the dollops I’ve added to the tart uncertainly.
Noelle sucks her lips in, obviously trying to hold back peals of laughter. ‘Absolutely,’ she says, once she’s calmed herself down, eyes still shining. ‘Think of it as… avant-garde.’
‘Avant-garde,’ I repeat, feigning contemplation. ‘Right. Because when people bite into this, they won’t be thinking “delicious”, they’ll be thinking “oh, what a brave exploration of form and texture”.’
I’m being sarcastic but either my intention doesn’t come across or she’s ignoring it because Noelle nods earnestly at me.
‘Exactly! And don’t compare yourself to me. Desserts are like snowflakes – no two are exactly alike, and they’re all beautiful in their own way.’
‘That sounds suspiciously like something you tell a child who’s just failed terribly at a task and they’re on the verge of tears.’
Noelle gives me a sheepish grin that tells me I’m right on the money. ‘Maybe,’ she admits with a shrug, her smile unwavering. ‘But it’s still true. Besides, taste trumps appearance. Always.’
My disbelief must be scattered across my face, because Noelle rolls her eyes and then dips a finger into the remnants of mixture still lining the bowl.
She coats her finger in the pink paste and then lifts it to her lips, closing her eyes as she savours the taste. There’s something undeniably intimate in the act, and I shift slightly, feeling all the blood in my body head south.
She lets out a sigh of contentment and then, without hesitation, extends her finger towards me, a dollop of cream still poised on the tip.
‘Try it,’ she says, voice low and soft. ‘Just a taste.’
I hesitate, the same hesitation that always clings to me in moments requiring unguarded spontaneity. But seeing her there, with flour on her cheek and warmth in her gaze, something shifts inside me. I don’t think, I just move.
I lean in until her finger is resting lightly between my lips, and a sudden truth hits me like a bolt of lightning.
I want more than just a taste.
The realisation rolls through me, heavy and undeniable. My heart picks up its pace, thudding against my chest like it wants to break free.
I look at her finger, then into her eyes, and something between us shifts imperceptibly. Before I can stop myself, I wrap my lips around her fingertip, tasting the creamy sweetness, rich and velvety against my tongue.
We both freeze. The air between us is suddenly charged with an energy I can’t describe but recognise all too well. It’s the sudden silence that’s loud, the way time seems to slow down, and how every moment we’ve shared in this kitchen tonight feels like it was leading up to this one.
Noelle’s eyes widen and she snatches her finger back suddenly.
I realise, at this point, that we’re at a crossroads.
I could pull back and pretend like this never happened, like it was a simple taste test of the strawberry cream.
Like the feel of her skin on my tongue hasn’t set every single one of my nerve endings on fire.
But the truth is, I don’t want to pretend.
Not anymore.
I hold her gaze, searching for any sign of hesitation or uncertainty, but all I see is a flicker of something similar to longing in her eyes.
Without breaking eye contact, I reach out to cup her cheek, my thumb brushing lightly against her soft skin. Noelle leans into my touch, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment before opening again, dark and intense.
It’s like the world around us fades into the background, until there’s only the sound of our ragged breathing filling the space between us. And then, as if moving of its own accord, my hand slides to the nape of her neck, pulling her closer until our lips meet.
And I’ll be damned. If I thought my nerve endings were on fire before, what I feel now is nothing short of an all-consuming inferno.