Chapter 4 #2
She’s watching me now, really watching me. The rain scent in the air is fading, just a little, replaced by something warmer. She likes having my attention on her. I can feel it. I like having it on her, too.
“My grandmother lives in San Francisco, above the bakery,” I continue, caught up in the memory.
“Her kitchen is tiny, always hot. It always smells of flour and yeast. She’s the one that taught me that baking isn’t just chemistry.
It’s patience. It’s love. She used to say, ‘Eli, if you rush the dough, the bread will know. It will taste like anxiety.’”
Amber smiles, a small, genuine thing that reaches her eyes. “That sounds beautiful. I’d… I’d like to try them sometime.”
The words hang in the air.
“Come by the restaurant tonight,” I blurt out before I can talk myself out of it. “I can make a batch for you. As compensation. For injuring you.”
She blinks, surprised. “Tonight? I don’t know… I have to pick up my daughter from school, and…”
“I stay open pretty late,” I interrupt gently. I don’t want to let her off the hook that easily. “Dinner service usually dies down around eight or nine. You could come after? Or even bring your daughter. We have a great kids’ menu.”
I reach out, unable to stop myself, and take her bandaged hand again. Her skin is warmer now. “I really want you to, Amber. You seem like you’ve had a bad day. And I make it a mission to fix bad days with food. It’s kind of my thing.”
She looks down at our joined hands, then back up at my face. The walls she’s put up are trembling. I can see the war behind her eyes—the instinct to run versus the desire to stay, to be comforted.
Finally, she lets out a breath that sounds like surrender. “I’ll try.”
“That’s all I want.” I smile at her. “Just try.”
I force myself to let go of her hand. The loss of contact is immediate and jarring. I need to go. If I stay any longer, I’m going to say something stupid, or I’m going to kiss her, and she’s definitely not ready for that.
“I have to go,” I say, though I make no move to open the door yet. “My partner will kill me if I’m late for prep. He’s… intense about schedules.”
“Okay,” she whispers.
“It was really nice meeting you, Amber. Despite the concussion.”
A huff of laughter escapes her. “You too, Eli. Thanks for the bandage.”
“Anytime.”
With a herculean effort, I open the car door and slide out into the cold. The wind is biting now, but my blood is running hot. I close her door gently and turn back toward the market.
I take a few steps, then pause. I can’t help it. I turn around.
She’s still watching me. Through the windshield, I can see her silhouette, her face turned toward me. She isn’t driving away. She’s just… sitting there.
A warmth slides down my spine, settling in my gut. It’s a feeling I haven’t felt in a long time. Not just attraction. Recognition.
Yeah. I’m definitely in trouble with this woman.
I raise a hand in a small wave. She lifts a hand in return.
I turn and walk toward the store entrance, my mind already racing. I need to get the butter. I need to check the proof on the croissants. And I need to make sure I have enough cinnamon for that batch of buns.
The bell above the door chimes as I step back into Blade I have a life here, a purpose. But she has become a new variable, a fascinating unknown in a recipe I thought I had perfected.
The afternoon drags on, the kitchen shifting from the high heat of service to the methodical cleanup and prep for tomorrow. Knox is in full drill sergeant mode, reorganizing the spice rack and critiquing the way the line cooks stacked the clean pans.
Around four o’clock, Knox finally stops. He looks down at his watch, then up at the ceiling, rolling his shoulders. The tension in his posture releases, just a fraction.
“I’m done,” he announces, his voice gravelly with fatigue. “Service was solid, but my brain is fried.”
“Go home,” I tell him, wiping down the stainless steel counter. “We’ve got this.”
Knox nods, untying his apron. He hangs it up with precision, the folds exact. “I left a portion of the lamb stew on the back burner, Fallon. Make sure you eat it. Don’t fill up on junk.”
“Yes, Mom.” Fallon salutes from the sink, where he is scrubbing a large pot.
Knox shoots him a glare that lacks any real heat. He grabs his coat and bag. “Lock up properly. See you tomorrow.”
He walks out, the heavy door swinging shut behind him. The silence he leaves in his wake is profound.
I look over at Fallon, who is drying his hands on a towel, looking just as weary as Knox. The shadows under his eyes are darker than usual.
“Hey,” I start, leaning against the counter. “I’ve got an idea.”
Fallon looks at me warily. “Does this idea involve me doing more work?”
“Actually, it involves you doing less.” I gesture around the kitchen. “I’ll handle the full cleanup tonight. The floors, the restocking, the dishes. You go home. Sleep. Do whatever it is you do.”
Fallon’s eyebrows shoot up. “What’s the catch?”
“The catch is that you handle the grocery runs for the next three days. I need some time in the mornings to… work on a special project.” I don’t mention Amber specifically, but the implication is there.
Fallon considers this for all of two seconds. “Deal. I hate walking into the cold storage at six a.m. anyway. My bones are getting too old for it.”
“You’re thirty, Fallon.”
“Thirty and tired.” He grabs his coat from the hook. “You’re a lifesaver, Eli. Seriously.”
He heads for the door, pausing just before he exits. “Don’t work too hard, okay? And lock the door behind me. I’m trusting you with the fortress.”
“Go home, Fallon.”
He leaves, and suddenly, the restaurant is mine.
The silence is different now. It’s peaceful. It’s just me, the hum of the refrigerator, and the warmth of the ovens.
I move through the kitchen, turning off the burners one by one. I spot the container of lamb stew Knox left for Fallon on the counter. Fallon, in his haste to escape, completely forgot it.
I shake my head, popping the lid off. It smells incredible—rich, savory, comforting. I slide it into the warm oven to keep it hot, in case Fallon realizes his mistake and comes back, or in case I get hungry later. Knowing Fallon, he’ll probably realize he’s starving five minutes after he gets home.
Once the kitchen is tidy, the gleam of the steel reflecting the overhead lights, I allow myself to focus on the real reason I wanted to be alone.
The buns.
I gather the ingredients: high-gluten flour, fresh yeast, whole milk, brown sugar, butter, and a generous amount of cinnamon. I measure everything out with the precision of a chemist, but my heart is pounding with the excitement of an artist about to paint.
As I mix the dough, the scent of yeast blooming in the warm milk fills the air. It’s a smell that connects me to every generation of bakers in my bloodline.
I knead the dough, pushing it against the counter with the heel of my hand. Fold, turn, push. Fold, turn, push.
This is the meditation I need. But my mind betrays me again.
I should have gotten her number.
The thought hits me hard, stopping my hands for a second. I told her to come by. I said I’d be here late. But what if she changes her mind?
What if she goes home and the reality of the day crashes down on her, and she decides to stay in the safety of her own home? I have no way to check in. No way to remind her that I’m waiting.
It’s a maddening feeling. I’m usually so patient. Baking requires patience. You cannot rush the proofing of a dough, any more than you can force a flower to bloom. But with Amber, I feel a strange urgency. I don’t want to wait.
I finish kneading, placing the smooth, elastic ball of dough into a lightly oiled bowl. I cover it with a damp cloth and set it in the warm corner near the oven to rise.
Now, I wait.
I lean back against the counter, wiping the flour from my hands. The restaurant is quiet, the only sound the ticking of the clock on the wall. I clean up the mixer, scrubbing the bowl until it shines.
I glance at the clock. 5:30 p.m. School will be out. She’ll be picking up her daughter. They’ll go home.
I imagine her in her kitchen. Is she smiling? Is she still crying?
The memory of her hand in mine flashes through my mind—cold, trembling, fragile. I want to be the one who warms her up. I want to be the one who chases away the rain scent with vanilla and burnt sugar.
I check the dough. It’s already puffing up, growing in the bowl.
“Come on,” I whisper to the empty room. “Come on, Amber.”
I’m not usually one to beg. But for a taste of that smile again, for the chance to see those hazel eyes light up without tears in them? I might just consider it.
I settle in to wait, watching the yeast work its magic, hoping that the same magic can work on her.