Chapter 4
FOUR
TYLER
The paperwork lands on the stainless-steel prep table with a satisfying slap.
Elizabeth glances at the top page.
“An NDA?”
“And a non-compete.”
She scans the first paragraph before looking up at me. “You really weren’t kidding.”
“I never joke about my buns.”
Her lips twitch. “I’ve noticed.”
See, I almost want to say. I can be charming.
She signs both pages without another question, slides them back across the table, and folds her arms. “When do I get my apron?”
I can’t help smiling. I hook my thumbs into the back pockets of my jeans.
“Three tests.”
She arches a brow. “Only three?”
“If you fail one, we’re done.”
“High stakes.” She tips her head. “You run a bakery that serves the best donuts I’ve ever eaten. I assumed your standards are ridiculously high.”
“They are.”
“Good.”
She reaches for an apron hanging nearby and slips it over her head before I can hand it to her.
“I’d be disappointed otherwise.”
First test: Temper chocolate.
I don’t give her instructions.
I simply place the bowls, thermometer, and couverture in front of her.
She studies everything for maybe three seconds.
Then gets to work. No hesitation. No panic.
No Googling.
I lean against the prep table, pretending not to watch.
She melts. Stirs. Checks temperature. Seeds the chocolate. Checks it again.
Exactly how I would’ve done it.
Interesting.
Second test: Fill twelve brioche donuts.
I hand her the piping bag. She gives it an experimental squeeze.
“Vanilla bean pastry cream?”
I blink. “You smelled it.”
“I tasted it earlier.”
She starts piping. One. Two. Three. Each donut identical.
I pick one up, cut it open. The filling sits dead center. Exactly where it should.
I don’t say anything. I simply put it down.
She notices. And smirks.
Now, for the third test…
I slide a tray toward her. “Braid.”
She looks at the dough. Then at me.
“Three-strand?”
I shrug. “Dealer’s choice.”
Without another word, she divides the dough.
Rolls it Into six strands. And plaits.
Her movements aren’t rushed. They’re practiced.
When she finishes, she brushes the loaf with egg wash before I even ask.
I stare. “Huh.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She raises an eyebrow. “That didn’t sound like nothing.”
“It wasn’t.”
She rests both palms on the table. “So?”
I walk around the loaf. Inspect the braid. Even tension. Smooth seams. No tearing.
I sigh dramatically.
“I was really hoping you’d fail one.”
She beams. “I’m sorry to disappoint.”
“No, you’re not.” That’s the problem. I rub my jaw. “Okay, what aren’t you telling me?”
“What do you mean?” she bats her eyes innocently, which only piques my suspicion more.
“I mean you just...” I gesture toward the cooling racks. “...handled everything like a pro. And you knew exactly what I meant when I asked you to braid the dough.”
“And?”
I fold my arms across my chest and tilt my chin down to narrow my eyes at her.
“Clearly, this isn’t your first rodeo.”
“Funny. I thought we were in a bakery. Not on a ranch.”
“You know what I mean.”
I nod.
“I can stand here all day. You might as well tell me.”
I point toward the workbench.
“Where did you learn all of this?”
“Would you believe me if I said your videos?”
“Not even a little.”
My eye twitches.
“There’s nothing informational about anything my sister posts.”
“You don’t think a thirst trap can be informational?”
She slowly lets her gaze travel up my body.
It’s like someone lit a match and dragged it over my skin.
I clear my throat and subtly shift my stance, trying very hard not to think about exactly where my blood has decided to migrate.
“They’re not thirst traps,” I say, sounding far less convincing than I’d like.
“They’re product placement promotions.”
“Product placement promotions?” She snorts. “That’s an awfully fancy way of describing a thirst trap.”
My irritation spikes.
Again.
I can’t decide whether I want to argue with her...or kiss her until she stops talking.
I clear my throat.
“It’s not like I took my shirt off.”
“You might as well have.”
I blink. “What does that even mean?”
She leans against the prep table, clearly enjoying my confusion.
“I’m saying your sister may as well have posted videos of you shirtless.”
She chuckles. “I’m pretty sure your bare chest is every bit as distracting as those...” she lets her eyes flick down briefly, “...slutty little forearms.”
I choke.
She smiles far too innocently while I cough into my fist.
When I finally recover enough oxygen to function, I stare at her. “Did you just say...” Another cough. “… ‘slutty little forearms?’”
“I sure as hell did.”
She reaches out and lightly trails one fingertip along the flour dusting my forearm. Every muscle in my body locks.
Heat races up my arm with embarrassing speed.
I swallow. Hard.
Fuck me.
I need to catch a coherent thought. Instead, all I can think about is how soft her hand felt.
She smiles like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
I force myself to take a step back. Just enough to prove I still possess some control over my own body.
“Okay,” I say, clearing my throat. “You’ve successfully derailed the conversation.”
Her mouth curves.
“Have I?”
“Yes.”
“How unfortunate.”
“For me, definitely.”
She laughs, and the sound settles somewhere low in my chest.
I fold my arms again, mostly because I don’t trust my hands near her.
“Now answer the question.”
“What question?”
I give her a look.
She presses her lips together, pretending to think. “Oh. Right. My mysterious baking abilities.”
I gesture toward the prep table.
“You tempered chocolate without checking the instructions. You filled every donut perfectly. And your braid had better tension than some people I’ve hired.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Is that a compliment?”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling. I can’t seem to help it around her.
“Where’d you learn?” I ask.
Her fingers brush lightly over the flour dusting her apron, and for the first time since we arrived, she looks uncertain.
“I worked in a bakery.”
I straighten. “You did?”
She nods. “All through high school.”
Then she adds, “And college.”
“That explains it.”
A faint smile touches her lips. “I needed the money.”
“Business school?”
She glances up. “How did you know?”
“You mentioned your desk job at dinner.”
“Right.”
She leans back against the prep table. “I worked opening shifts before class, closing shifts after class, and weekends whenever they’d take me.”
“That’s brutal.”
“It was.” Her smile turns softer. “But I loved it.”
I believe her. I can see it in the way she looks around the kitchen.
Not like a customer. Not like someone impressed by the shiny equipment or the racks of finished pastries.
She looks at the place like she understands what it costs.
The early mornings. The burns. The aching back. The batches that fail for no clear reason.
The constant pressure of knowing one bad day can wreck a week’s profit.
“I got a business degree because it made sense.”
The way she says it makes me frown. “And baking didn’t?”
“Not according to anyone around me.”
There’s no bitterness in her voice. That somehow makes it worse.
“They all said I was too smart to spend my life in a kitchen.”
My jaw tightens. “That’s a stupid thing to say.”
“I know that now.”
“You didn’t then?”
“I was a kid.” She gives a small, self-conscious laugh. “I thought everyone else knew more about life than I did.”
I know that feeling.
“So you took the safe job,” I say.
She nods. “Corporate operations.”
I wince. “That sounds painful.”
“It’s not terrible.”
“That’s not the same as good.”
“No.” Her gaze drops again. “I sit at a desk. I answer emails. I make spreadsheets. I sit through meetings about meetings.”
“Horrifying.”
She laughs. “It pays well.”
“Still horrifying.”
“It has benefits.”
“Elizabeth.”
She sighs. “I know.”
The bakery falls quiet around us. The mixers are off for once. The ovens hum softly behind me. Somewhere in the front, the refrigeration unit kicks on.
I watch her trace a fingertip through the flour on the table.
“I always wanted to own a bakery,” she says.
The words are soft enough that I almost miss them.
My chest tightens. “You did?”
“Since I was sixteen.”
“What kind?”
Her eyes brighten despite herself.
“Warm. Cozy. The kind of place where regulars come in and you know their orders before they reach the counter.”
I can see it.
I can see her behind the case, smiling at customers. Flour on her cheek. Music playing in the kitchen. Her name painted across the window.
“What would you sell?”
“Everything.”
“That’s not a business plan.”
“I’d narrow it down eventually.”
“Eventually?”
She grins. “Cakes. Pastries. Really good cookies. Maybe bread on weekends.”
“Maybe?”
“Bread takes a lot of work.”
“It sure does.”
She studies me. “You’re agreeing with me a lot.”
I laugh under my breath. “Don’t get used to it.”
Then her smile fades. “I was too scared of failure. So I took the easy path.”
She says it simply. No dramatics. No attempt to soften it.
I lean back against the opposite table. “And now?”
“Now I’m good at a job I don’t care about.”
Something in the words hits harder than it should.
Maybe because I’ve spent years hiding inside work I do care about. Maybe because she did the opposite and hid from hers.
She looks around my kitchen again. “That’s why I admire you.”
I almost laugh. “For being sleep-deprived and emotionally attached to yeast?”
“For doing it.” Her eyes meet mine. “For building this.”
I don’t know what to say.
People compliment the bakery all the time. They tell me it’s beautiful. They tell me the donuts are incredible. They tell me they drove across town or flew across the country to try them.
But no one says it like she does.
Like she sees the years of hard work and fear underneath it.
“I almost didn’t,” I admit.
Her brow furrows. “Really?”
“Really.”
I look down at the flour on my shirt.
“I signed the lease and spent the next three nights convinced I’d ruined my life.”
“What changed?”
“Nothing.”
She waits.
“I was still terrified.”
“Then how did you do it?”
I lift one shoulder. “I decided I was more afraid of spending the rest of my life wondering what would’ve happened.”
Her expression softens. “That’s brave.”
“It didn’t feel brave.”
“What did it feel like?”
“Like throwing up.”
She bursts out laughing.
I grin. “I’m serious.”
“I believe you.”
“I think people make courage sound exciting.” I take a step toward her. “Most of the time, it feels awful.”
Her eyes stay on mine.
“But you do it anyway,” she says.
“Yeah.” I’m close now. Close enough to see the faint dusting of flour near her jaw.
Close enough to smell vanilla on her skin.
“You do it anyway.”
Her voice drops. “I still think you’re brave.”
“I think you’re giving me too much credit.”
“I think you don’t give yourself enough.”
She reaches up. Her fingers brush my cheek. A light sweep of her thumb that wipes away a streak of flour I didn’t know was there.
Every thought in my head disappears. Except one.
Kiss her.
I should ask. I should say something. I should make sure she wants this.
Then her gaze drops to my mouth.
That’s all the permission I need. I lean in slowly. She meets me halfway.
The first touch of her lips is soft. Careful. A question.
I answer by sliding one hand around her waist and pulling her closer.
She makes a quiet sound against my mouth, and every ounce of restraint I’ve been clinging to snaps.
The kiss deepens. Her hands move to my chest. Mine tighten at her waist.
She tastes like champagne and sugar and something uniquely her that I can’t name.
I angle my head and kiss her again. Harder.
She rises onto her toes. Her fingers curl into my shirt.
I dig my fingers into her curvy hips. Heat rushes through me so fast I forget where we are.
Forget the order waiting to be finished. Forget every reason this is a bad idea.
All I know is that she fits against me like she belongs here. In my kitchen. In my arms.
Her mouth opens under mine, and I’m gone.
Then someone pounds on the back door.
“Hello!”
Elizabeth jerks back.
I catch her before she stumbles, keeping one hand at her waist.
Another frantic knock rattles the door. “You in there?”
I close my eyes. Of course. Of course this happens now.
I open my eyes and nearly groan. Elizabeth’s lips are swollen. Her cheeks are flushed.
She looks every bit as wrecked as I feel.
Which does absolutely nothing to help the situation happening below my belt.
She gives a breathless laugh. “You have excellent timing.”
“I wasn’t the one knocking.”
Bang. Bang. Bang. “Is anyone in there?”
I rest my forehead against hers for one brief second. “Ignore them.”
Her smile brushes my mouth. “Can you?”
“No.”
Another knock.
“For the love of God! I see the light. Will someone please open?”
I let out a groan and step back, immediately hating the space between us.
“Unfortunately, anyone frantic enough to pound on my bakery door after midnight is probably bringing me a problem.”
She smooths her hands down her apron.
“Then I guess we should find out what it is.”
We.
The word catches me.
I look at her.
She’s still flushed from my kiss. Still standing in my kitchen. Still looking at me like she has no intention of leaving.
And suddenly, whatever disaster is waiting on the other side of that door doesn’t feel quite so bad.