Chapter 5 #2
He stops right in front of me. He’s close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body.
Before I can step back, he reaches out and pulls me into a hug. It’s quick, firm, and over before I can even register how to react, but the impact lingers.
He smells incredible. Not like smoke—that smell is already fading. He smells like a long day of hard work.
There’s a hint of sweat, the rich yeast of dough, and the sweet, comforting aroma of brown sugar and vanilla. It’s an addictive scent that makes my head spin.
Fuck. This is a problem.
He pulls back, his hands resting on my shoulders for a split second before he drops them. “I’m really glad you came, Amber.”
“Me too,” I admit, my voice sounding a little breathless. I need to regain my composure. I need to stop thinking about how good he feels. “So. Where are these buns you keep talking about? Because if they aren’t real, I’m going to be very disappointed.”
Eli laughs, a low, warm sound that vibrates in his chest. “They’re real. They’re cooling in the kitchen. Come on back.”
He leads me through the archway into the kitchen. It’s massive, a cavern of stainless steel and industrial equipment. The countertops are gleaming, the pots hanging from the rack are organized by size, and the floor is spotless.
But it doesn’t feel sterile. It feels lived-in. There’s a radio playing soft jazz in the corner, and a chalkboard on the wall covered in what looks like chemistry equations for recipes.
On the large central island, there’s a plate covered with foil. Next to it sits a container of what looks like a rich, dark stew.
“Did you have dinner?” Eli asks, nodding toward the stew. “Knox made a lamb stew earlier. There’s plenty left if you’re hungry.”
I shake my head. “I’m actually full. My brother grilled burgers. I’m just here for dessert.”
The second the words leave my mouth, I want to swallow them back. Just here for dessert. Yeah, that definitely sounds like I’m propositioning him.
Eli pauses, his hand hovering over the tea kettle. A flush creeps up his neck, tinting the tips of his ears a shade of pink. He clears his throat, his eyes meeting mine for a hot second before darting away.
“Right,” he manages. “Dessert. Of course.”
I feel my own face heat up, but I decide to power through it. If I acknowledge it, I’ll die of embarrassment. So I ignore it.
“These taste better with tea,” Eli says, turning his back to me to fill the kettle. “Do you mind if I brew us a few cups? It’s an old family recipe. My grandmother swore it was the only thing to drink with cinnamon.”
“I’d love that,” I tell him, leaning my hip against the counter.
While the water heats, I wander over to a small table tucked into the corner near the office. A heavy, marble chess set sits there, the pieces frozen in the middle of a game. It looks expensive, the kind of heirloom piece that belongs in a museum, not a commercial kitchen.
“Is this yours?” I ask, tracing the line of a knight.
Eli looks over from the stove. “No. That’s Knox’s. He plays when he needs to decompress. He was a chess prodigy when he was a kid. Grandmaster tournaments, the whole nine yards.”
“Really? He doesn’t seem like the type.” I look at the precise, strategic arrangement of the pieces.
“He’s not really. Not anymore.” Eli pours hot water into two ceramic mugs. “He left that world behind. But he still loves the game. It helps him think.”
“Do you know how to play?” I ask.
He shakes his head, carrying the mugs over to the island. “Not really. Knox tries to teach me sometimes, but I prefer baking. With baking, if you follow the recipe, you get a predictable result. Chess is… endless.”
“Endless sounds exhausting,” I muse.
“It can be.” He sets a mug down in front of me. The steam rises, carrying the scent of jasmine and chrysanthemum. “Careful, it’s hot.”
I wrap my hands around the ceramic, letting the warmth seep into my palms. “How did you guys even end up here together? You, Knox, and Fallon? You seem so… different.”
Eli leans against the counter opposite me, cradling his own mug. “We met in Portland. We were all working at this high-end French restaurant. The kind of place where the chef screams at you for breathing too loud.”
He smiles, a nostalgic look crossing his face.
“It was brutal. Toxic. One night, during a really stressful service, the sous chef walked out. Just left in the middle of dinner rush. The three of us—me, Knox, Fallon—we were just line cooks then. We looked at each other, and we just… covered. We took over his station. We communicated without words, moving around each other like we’d been doing it for years. We saved the service.”
He takes a sip of tea. “After that, we were inseparable. We realized we all hated the culture. We wanted something different. A place built on mutual respect, not fear. We pooled our savings, looked at a map, and picked Fox Hollow. It had the charm, the space, and the potential. Fallon brought the butchery skills, Knox the culinary strategy, and I brought the sugar.”
“That’s pretty cool, chasing your dreams like that.”
He shrugs like it was a simple decision, but I can hear the pride in his voice. “We opened Blade & Butter, and somewhere along the way, we became a pack. It wasn’t a formal thing. It just happened.”
“That’s amazing,” I say softly. I watch him as he talks, the way his eyes light up. It’s clear he loves them. “You built a family.”
“Yeah.” He sets his mug down. “We did.”
He turns to the island and removes the foil from the plate. The smell hits me instantly—cinnamon, brown butter, yeast, and sugar. It’s intoxicating.
“Okay,” he says, picking up a small ladle. “I made a cream cheese glaze with a pinch of sea salt, just like I told you.”
He drizzles the glaze over the buns. It’s thick and white, pooling in the spirals of the dough. He slides the plate toward me.
“Try it. While it’s still warm.”
I pick up a bun. It’s heavy, dense, and warm in my hand. I take a bite.
The flavor explodes in my mouth. The dough is soft and rich, melting on my tongue.
The brown butter gives it a nutty, deep depth, and the cinnamon is spicy.
Then the glaze hits—cool, tangy, and sweet, with that perfect dash of salt that cuts through the sugar.
It’s, without a doubt, the best thing I have ever eaten.
I let out a low, involuntary moan.
Eli watches me, a slow smile spreading across his face. “That gives me hope.”
I swallow, licking a bit of glaze from my thumb. “Eli. You were not lying. These are fucking fantastic.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I take another bite, savoring it. “Lemon tarts have been my favorite dessert since I was a kid. But I might need to switch. This is… this is comfort on a plate.”
He laughs, looking relieved. “I’m glad to hear that. I’d hate to lose the title to a lemon tart.”
“What’s your favorite?” I ask him.
He considers it for a moment. “Pavlova. I love the contrast. Crunchy meringue on the outside, soft marshmallow on the inside, with tart fruit and whipped cream. It’s a texture thing.”
“Sounds perfect.”
He leans his elbows on the counter, getting a little closer. “What about your daughter? What’s her favorite?”
Something in my chest unfurls, a tight knot I didn’t even know was there loosening. Most men, when they find out I have a child, they check out. Their eyes glaze over. But Eli… he seems genuinely interested. He wants to know about Maisie.
“Lemon tarts, actually,” I tell him, smiling. “She loves them. We get them from Lorelai’s whenever we have a good week.”
Eli grins. “She has great taste. Just like her mother.”
I look down at my bun, feeling the heat climb up my neck again. “You have a very smooth tongue.”
He doesn’t deny it. His smirk is playful, his eyes crinkling behind his glasses. “I’m just stating facts. You have a very pretty smile, Amber. You should wear it more often.”
I set the bun down, my heart thumping against my ribs. The air between us feels charged, electric. “Are you hitting on me, Eli?”
He doesn’t look away. He holds my gaze, his expression open and honest. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“On if that is something you would want.”
I pick up my tea, taking a sip to buy myself a second. The liquid is hot and floral, calming my racing nerves but doing nothing to dampen the attraction. I set the cup down.
“It’s a little complicated,” I whisper.
He nods, accepting that without pushing. He doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t ask who. He just lets it be.
“Can I ask,” he says softly, “if you’re seeing someone?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m not.”
“Good,” he says simply.
The single word hangs in the air between us. I take another bite of the bun, needing something to do with my hands. “What about you? Are you seeing anyone?”
He reaches out and breaks off a piece of my bun, popping it into his mouth. “No. I’m not seeing anyone either.”
“Okay,” I manage to say.
He watches me, his eyes dropping to my lips for a second before snapping back up to my eyes. The look is hungry, but it’s patient. He’s waiting for me.
“Do you think that’s a good or a bad thing?” he asks.
I look at him—really look at him. The kind baker who bandaged my hand in a parking lot. The man who made me tea and listened to me talk about my daughter. The man who is looking at me like I’m the only person in the world right now.
I smile, despite myself. “Why are you so interested in my opinion?”
Eli straightens up, but he doesn’t step away. He looks me dead in the eye. “Because right now, in this kitchen, no one’s opinion matters more to me than yours.”
The buzzing under my skin is back, louder than ever. My pulse is throbbing in my throat. I am standing on a precipice, and I know exactly what lies at the bottom.
“Stop flirting with me,” I whisper. I barely recognize my own voice—it’s low, raspy, and filled with a need I haven’t felt in years.
Eli grins, a wicked, confident tilt of his lips. He knows he has me. He knows I like it.
“Make me,” he challenges softly, but there’s no malice in it. Only warmth.
I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of cinnamon and him. Yeah, I definitely like Eli’s attention on me. And for the first time in a long time, I think I might be ready to let myself have it.
But I’m too much of a coward so I reach for another bite of my dessert instead.