10. Alexandra
ten
The next few days go by in a daze. Mostly, my body needs to adapt. My feet are killing me. My arms are killing me.
The work is hard.
They never said it would be easy. And Red Barn offered me a lot, and I mean a lot of money to turn it down.
That’s not the problem here.
“Alexandra.”
That’s the problem.
My hot boss. The way he says my name, rolling off his tongue like a dirty word whispered between sheets we might want to share at some point. A code of sorts.
I tilt my head up.
Yup.
He’s looking at me like I’m puzzling and fascinating to him. “You gonna be okay?” He brushes off the snowflakes caught in his hair.
Isaac came in with a bruised jaw this morning, and I talked him into telling me what was going on. What’s going on is, his father is an asshole. The major league kind.
I didn’t take it too well.
“Me? I’m great. It’s Isaac you need to ask.”
Christopher leans on the doorjamb. Drops his head. Studies his feet. Looks back up at me. “He knows we’re here for him. I had a talk with his asshole of a father just now. I need to be careful. Can’t break the link, you know. He’s under eighteen. His father says he can’t work here anymore, then he can’t.”
“Can’t you report it?”
He clicks his tongue. “Isaac won’t. He wants to look after his mom and his younger sister. The way he sees things right now, he’s the punching ball, they don’t get hurt.” He looks up at me, and there’s pain in his eyes. It sears through me. “We’re working on changing how he sees it. So. Thanks for talking to him too. That means a lot to me.” He looks at me, and all of a sudden, we’re not talking about Isaac anymore. His eyes are talking about how he sees me, and that scares me a whole lot.
“Course,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say, and the moment is getting too intense for me. Full-on belly clench. It doesn’t help that his eyes roam my body, and my nipples don’t get the message that it’s technically wrong to perk up under these circumstances.
Although.
DamnI like when he looks at me like that.
He finally pushes himself from the door. Before leaving the kitchen, he adds, “I think his father got the message this time.”
“Good,” I say on an exhale.
I turn my attention back on the late lunch I fixed myself while Christopher was picking Skye up from school.
I was starving, my appetite left during the convo with Christopher, now I know Isaac is going to be okay thanks to my hot boss, my appetite is back.
The good news is, the fridge is stocked with cold cuts, cheeses, and soup, and I’m surrounded by the best bread in the world.
Being hungry around here is a good problem to have.
I’m finally sitting down, a sandwich between my fingers, and damn.
That bread is good.
So good I tear a piece from the sandwich to savor it alone.
So good I close my eyes and moan.
Pure.
Pleasure.
The scraping of a chair on the floor pulls me from my moment. I keep my eyes closed and swallow, then open one eyelid to see who’s interrupting my break.
Christopher.
I sit up.
“Did I wake you.” His eyes lift from my throat and glide over my lips.
“God, this bread is sinfully good.”
He smirks.
I take a huge bite from my sandwich and feel my cheek bump to the side. I can’t be acting cute around my boss. I’m starving, and I’m focusing on the task at hand: getting through this apprenticeship, passing the exam. My earlier bodily reaction to his presence can’t repeat itself on a loop.
“What’s your favorite bread,” he asks.
I point to the baguette and take another bite.
“Apart from that.”
I shrug.
“What’s that mean.”
“I try to stay away from bread.”
He quirks an eyebrow. That’s his way of asking a question. I think.
“You know. Weight and all that,” I say as a manner of explanation.
He grunts. He stands, disappears into the bakehouse, and reappears minutes later, carrying a wooden tray with an assortment of breads.
And he says, “You have the type of body that fills in in all the right places.”
Oh.
My.
God.
I nearly choke on my sandwich.
And what are these places, again?
He hands me a piece of buttered dark bread. “Taste this.”
Our fingers touch briefly, and I try, and fail, to ignore the fluttering of my belly. He moves to the side of the table and sits, elbows on the table, eyes boring into me.
The bread is warm, soft, and full, its flavor needing nothing, its texture filling.
“So?” he asks. A real question this time. Interesting.
I swallow. Again, his gaze trails the bread down my throat then goes back up to my mouth and slowly locks back with my eyes. The tickle between my legs intensifies, and my eyes can’t pull away from his.
He’s my boss. This needs to stop.
How do I stop this?
“Describe the taste for me.”
I swallow, try to take a steady breath, and look away from him. I can’t let him see what I feel. “It’s thicker than the baguette. Denser. Much tastier. Almost spicy.” I feel myself blush.
“That’s a rye boule,” he says. “It’s a mix of 25 percent rye flour. That’s the texture and flavor you’re describing. An overnight fermentation in the refrigerator brings out the flavor more.” He’s switched to pro mode, and god, that might be even sexier.
He reaches over and grabs another loaf, ripping it open with his hands. “This one is a house specialty. The flour is whole wheat, with added semolina for extra crunchiness. The fermentation is a two-step process to bring out the bubbles that make it light and airy inside.” He points to the larger craters in the bread, then hands it to me to taste it. Our fingers touch again.
I feel the blush spreading on my face.
“Why are you blushing.” This he says as a statement, with a hint of irritation in his tone, and amusement in his eyes. He moves closer to me.
“You’re watching me eat,” I answer, my hand hiding my full mouth.
“Oh, that.” He pulls my hand gently away as his gaze trails down to my lips. “Better get used to it,” he whispers. His thumb traces the palm of my hand, sending ripples of pleasure through my whole body, then abruptly lets go.
He paces the kitchen and switches back to pro mode. “You have some catching up to do in everything bread related. As your master, it’s my responsibility to educate you. We’ll work on educating your palate.”
His tone suddenly softer, his eyes back on me in that manner that just melted me, he adds, “It’s a good thing you’re staying in-house. We can use all twenty-four hours of the day.”
I have trouble swallowing. Not only is he insanely gorgeous, in that tall, dark and broody way that only exists in books, but he’s looking at me with those eyes full of want and then, the next moment, full of kindness, and I’m not the kind of girl to swoon over a man but when that man is so objectively desirable and when he just told me it’s a good thing he’s going to have me twenty-fours a day in his house?
Color me a deep shade of smitten.
So when he leans in to run his hand like a feather over the side of my face and says, “Does that sound like something you can handle?” —a real question again—all I can do is blink my agreement. Real deer-in-the-headlights moment.
I can’t breathe.
I drown in his irises the color of sin.
“You’re blushing again,” he says in a low voice.
Um? Yeah.
He pulls his hand away softly and flicks his fingers. “You had a breadcrumb,” he says, and before I can analyze what happened, he’s gone, and I don’t see him until dinner that night.
The kitchen is empty when I walk into it, but the table is set for four. After a minute, Skye runs in alone. “We’re having galettes tonight!” she says, grabbing my hands and pulling me in a little happy dance. “Have you ever been the queen?” she asks, letting go of me.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I confess.
“It’s okay,” she says, nodding like it’s not the first time she’s heard that. “It’s from Paris. My daddy lived there, that’s why we do it. He bakes the Best. Cake. In. The. World, and hides a bean in it. If you get the bean, then you’re the queen. You get a crown,” she says, showing me two cardboard crowns set on the table, “and then you get to choose your king.” She sighs dramatically. “I hope I’ll be the queen.”
“Who will be your king?”
She rounds her eyes at me. “Daddy!” Then, seeming to understand, she adds, “You have to choose someone around the table. I s’pose if you got the bean, you could choose me as your other queen. That works too.”
“Oh, good,” I say. “I will do that—if I get the bean.”
She squints at the table. “It looks like Aunt Grace is coming. Yay!” Right on cue, the doorbell chimes and seconds later, Grace comes in carrying a dish wrapped in foil.
“Hi, Alex,” she says. “Can you open the oven for me?”
My phone startles me, buzzing in my back pocket. Voldemort. I send it to voice mail and open the oven.
“Where’s your dad?” Grace asks Skye as she sets the oven temperature, then takes her coat off.
“I’ll go get him,” Skye cries out and darts upstairs.
“What’s up with him? Why isn’t he here?” she asks me.
“I-I don’t know. I haven’t seen him all afternoon.”
Grace adds serving utensils to the table. “Huh. He told me to come over for his galette. Mom made three dishes of lasagna yesterday, dropped one off at my place, so I told him I’d bring it. Grab us some wine, I’ll make a salad.”
I hesitate. “White? Red?”
“Whatever you’d like. Red sounds good, and then we can have a hard cider from the fermentory with the galette. Speaking of wine, are you free this Thursday night?”
“My social calendar is wide open.”
“Good. I’ll take you to Game Night. Us girls just get together, drink wine, and come up with our own versions of board games. It’s fun.”
“Sounds nice. What time and where?”
“I’ll pick you up here at five. We’ll walk to Cassandra’s. She’s having it in the back of her store. It’s the most adorable space,” she says.
“Corrupting my staff already?” Christopher groans, startling us. “Smells good in here.” He pecks Grace on the cheek and places a variety of dinner rolls in the oven. “Thanks for the lasagna. My favorite.”
“You can thank your aunt.”
“I will.”
“Skye, hands?” Christopher asks, ruffling his daughter’s hair.
“S-craped them s-queaky clean!” She smacks her lips and rubs her hands.
“Good job, Skye!” Grace says. Skye smiles, clearly proud. She seems to look for words difficult for her to pronounce. Seeing her seeking this challenge is both heartwarming and inspiring to me.
I cast a side glance at Christopher. He, too, picked up on his daughter’s efforts. Of course he did. He tries to hide his pride, but it’s hard to miss. It’s in his eyes and in his smile.
He winks at Grace. “She’s doing great, isn’t she?” he says softly, earning a hug from Skye. I feel like an intruder and try to disappear in the background, but just end up being moved to the core by the love emanating from them.
“Of course she is,” Grace says as she sets the heavy dish of lasagna on the table. “Alex, can you grab the salad?” she adds, making me instantly grateful that she also caught my unease and included me. “And, Chris, the bread please. Let’s eat!”
While we take our seats, I snap pictures of the breadbasket at the center of the table, contrasting with the colorful dishes. My phone buzzes, again. Voldemort. I send it to voice mail, again. Less than a minute later, the voice mail tone chirps. I set the phone on silent.
“Do I need to cast a spell?” Christopher smirks when my phone screen lights up with the same nickname.
I take the phone to the kitchen counter and set it screen down. “No,” I admit softly. “It’s the office in New York. But there’s nothing they can do to me while I’m here, so…”
“So…not answering?” Christopher says.
“That’s right.”
“What could they possibly want from you?” Grace frowns.
“It’s nothing… It’s just… work-related.”
Christopher sets his fork down with a loud clank. “They can’t have you working for them while you’re here with me.”
The heat coming from him electrifies my veins. I hold on to his gaze as if he’s some kind of buoy. “I’m not working. It’s—It’s complicated. It’s about what I’ll be doing when I go back.”
He frowns.
“When do you go back, again?” Grace asks.
“In less than six months,” Skye answers. “That’s in a loooong time.”
Christopher grunts.
“And they’re already bothering you with what you’ll be doing when you get back?” Grace asks.
“Yeah. My boss.”
“He’s not your boss as long as you’re with me,” Christopher cuts in.
As long as you’re with me. My spine tingles. “That’s why I’m not picking up his calls,” I breathe.
Christopher grunts again—something that sounds like“good.”
Grace’s eyes dance between the two of us. “How’s the apprenticeship going?”
I wipe my mouth. “So far, so good? I guess? The theory is okay, not too hard to memorize.” I take a sip of wine and glance nervously at Christopher. “It’s the practice. I’m such a klutz. It’s like I have two left hands. I don’t know.”
“It’ll take time,” Grace says.
“You care about what you do, and the dough senses it,” Christopher cuts in.
The dough what?
“The dough is a breathing, living thing,” he continues. “When the baker is in a bad mood, or doesn’t care, the dough senses it. Just like a pet. It feels your intention and reacts to it.” He drills his gaze into mine. “You are a caring person. You’ll never totally screw up your baking.”
I reach for my glass for composure, my eyes unable to leave his. The back of my hand hits the stem, the glass tilts away, and Christopher’s hand wraps around mine and the glass. “See?” I breathe, my cheeks ablaze.
He gives my hand a squeeze. “You just need to gain confidence. And, sometimes, you’ll need the right person next to you at the right time.”
He brushes his thumb inside my wrist before removing his hand.
Heat zings to my center.
And confidence sweeps through me as well.
“Nice catch, Daddy!” Skye giggles. Thank god she’s oblivious to the subtext between us.
Grace’s gaze darts between Christopher and me, a smile dancing in her eyes.
“I don’t know about that,” I say. “It never works that way.”