Chapter 10 #2
The air between us feels charged, crackling with something I can’t quite identify—or maybe don’t want to.
Needing to cancel out the tension that’s making my skin feel too tight, I turn on some music.
A soft folk song wafts through the kitchen speakers, the acoustic guitar and gentle vocals filling the space between us.
I get to work pulling out the ingredients and placing them on the stainless steel counter. Each item has its place—the flour in its container, the salt in its small bowl, the tools lined up like soldiers. Organization is everything in baking. In life too, though I’m not quite as successful there.
“Okay, so I’ve already combined rye flour, the starter, and water.
It’s been sitting for five hours.” I uncover the bowl with a flourish, like a magician revealing his trick.
The dough has transformed in those hours, becoming something alive.
“It’s doubled in size, which is good. That’s what we want. ”
“Got it.” She pulls out a pen and pad from her bag, her movements efficient and practiced, and takes notes in handwriting I can’t quite read from here.
“Now we’re going to shape the dough. Have you ever baked bread?”
“Uh, no. I haven’t.” She looks almost embarrassed by the admission.
I can’t help but chuckle, the irony not lost on me. “Are you one of those food reviewers who doesn’t cook?”
She gives me a level, unperturbed look that would intimidate someone who didn’t know her. “Why would I cook when I can go to restaurants and let the experts take care of that? You wouldn’t want more competition would you?”
I raise an eyebrow, playing along. “Oh, really? You think you would be my competition?”
She shrugs a shoulder, the gesture casual but her eyes dancing with mischief. “Eh. Show me how to make sourdough and we’ll see.”
I laugh and shake my head, genuinely delighted by her confidence. “Okay, okay. We’ll see. Maybe this student will surpass the teacher one day.”
She winks, and heat explodes through my abdomen like I’ve opened an oven door too fast. Forcing a swallow past my suddenly dry throat, I redirect my attention back to the project at hand. Focus on the bread. Always focus on the bread. “We’ll start with lightly flouring the surface.”
Grabbing a small handful of flour from the container, I sprinkle it across one of the wooden surfaces we use for shaping.
The flour falls like snow, dusting the worn wood that’s seen thousands of loaves.
“Rye dough is sticky and it doesn’t have the same elasticity as wheat dough.
We need to be careful with it. Gentle. Like handling something precious. ”
“Got it.” She nods, gaze fixated on what I’m doing with an intensity that makes me hyperaware of every movement. I watch her for any signs of mockery, any hint that she’s not taking this seriously, but she appears to be completely absorbed.
“This is where we’ll mold it into the loaf shape we want.”
“Like a heart?” Her eyes light up with childlike enthusiasm. There’s the silliness I was expecting.
“I was thinking a round or oval,” I laugh, imagining trying to fit a heart-shaped loaf into our equipment. “A heart would be cute, but it needs to fit in one of the proofing baskets.”
“One of these?” She grabs a proofing basket from a shelf, holding it up like she’s found treasure.
“Exactly. Flour a cloth and line the basket, please.”
Her movements are surprisingly lithe and confident, despite never doing this before. She handles the cloth with care, dusting it with flour in smooth, even strokes, and I have to work to not stare at the grace in her movements, the way she bites her lip slightly in concentration.
“Now take the dough and gently set it into the basket.” I demonstrate with careful hands, cradling the dough like an infant.
“And then bake it.” She starts to move toward one of the ovens, eager as a puppy.
“In two hours.”
She stops mid-step and turns back, frowning. “Two hours?”
“Yep.” I chuckle at her obvious disappointment. “It has to rise.”
“This takes forever.” The complaint is good-natured, but I can see her trying to recalculate her evening.
I shrug and lean against the counter, the familiar steel cool against my palms. “It’s a slow process. It’s worth it, though. Good things take time.”
“What do you do while you wait?”
“Usually I have plenty to do. Get other breads out of the oven and onto cooling racks. Clean and prep. Check the starters. Rotate stock. There’s always something in a bakery.”
She looks around the pristine kitchen, taking in the already-clean surfaces, the organized shelves, the floors I mopped an hour ago. “But there’s nothing to do now.”
“Uh... no. There’s not.” Damn. I hadn’t thought about all the time we would have on our hands. I was too distracted with the weekend’s to-do list to properly plan for this lull. The silence stretches between us, uncomfortable as an overproofed dough. “We can clean this stuff up, though.”
She grabs a towel from the stack I keep by the sink and wipes off the counter with determined strokes, then absentmindedly touches her face, leaving a perfect white handprint on her cheek.
“You have, uh, flour.” I point to my own cheek, trying to mirror where hers is marked.
“Where?” She touches her cheek with floury fingers, somehow making it worse, smearing even more flour across her face like war paint.
“All over now,” I laugh, the tension breaking.
“Oh.” She bursts into giggles, the sound bouncing off the kitchen walls and warming something in my chest.
“Here.” I grab a clean towel from the stack and step closer.
Too close. I can smell her shampoo—something fresh and clean that cuts through the persistent yeast-and-flour scent of the bakery.
I gently wipe her cheek, the towel soft between my fingers and her skin.
Her eyes lock onto mine, something soft and promising there, pupils dilated in the kitchen’s fluorescent lighting, and with a start I realize just how close we are.
Inches apart. Tantalizing, agonizing inches apart. I can feel the warmth radiating from her body, can see the pulse fluttering at her throat.
My every cell vibrates, a new life force spreading through them like yeast activating in warm water. Heat blooms across my face and shoots down my arms and into my hands—which inch to take the place of the towel and touch her cheek directly, skin to skin.
“Did you get it?” She whispers, her breath stirring the air between us.
“Uh, I...” My breath hitches, catching somewhere between my lungs and throat. “Almost.”
Her gaze searches mine, and the magnetic force between us strengthens, inexorable as gravity.
I’ve been fighting it this whole week, building walls of professionalism and past hurts, and I know I should walk away.
Give up this silly desire right here and now.
Step back. Create distance. Remember all the reasons this is a bad idea.
But instead, I find myself moving forward, my lips crashing into hers.