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His large hands gripped the bag with expertise as he moved impressively fast, looping a dollop of cream on each small tart. Once he was finished with all of them, he set the bag down and wiped his hand on a white towel nearby. As he turned, he noticed me.
“Morning.” The grainy texture of his voice rippled down my spine. “You’re just in time.”
He lifted a small canister next to him. With a flick of his thumb, a blue flame shot out of the end. My eyes widened.
“Wanna light something on fire?” He grinned.
“Absolutely.” I stepped forward, settling in next to him.
“Wave the torch like this.” He demonstrated a gentle sweeping motion. “I’ll move the pan around. We’re going for a medium toast on each one.”
I set my lips in a determined line. “Medium toast. Got it.”
Huck moved close, and the soft hair on his forearms tickled the edge of my arm. I swallowed hard.
Don’t fuck this up.
“What if I do it wrong?”
“You won’t.”
Like we’d done this a thousand times before, I swept the butane torch in a slow arc, trying not to burn the pastry he’d likely spent hours making. His large hands were delicate and swift as he moved the pan, helping to guide the angle of the flame to lightly scorch the tops of each one.
When we were finished, Huck took the canister, extinguishing the flame and setting it in front of me. “See. Perfect. You’re a natural.”
I smiled at his praise. “What are they?”
“S’mores puff pastry mini tarts.” His smile was arresting as pride laced into his voice. “Can’t go to a bonfire and not have s’mores.”
I looked down at the small tarts.
“Is that marshmallow?” I pointed to the perfectly browned tops.
“It is.”
Crispy tart shells had been filled with chocolate and topped with toasted marshmallow. They were a heavenly layering of s’more ingredients, arranged in a delightfully unique way.
A work of art, really.
I smiled and grabbed the small torch, flicking it on just as I’d seen Huck do. With a quick hand, I singed the top of one pastry, burning the marshmallow topping to a crunchy, charred black.
Once it was good and burned, I set the torch down and lifted the tart in admiration. “Now it’s perfect. Nice and burnt. The perfect s’more.”
Huck feigned disgust. “You’re a monster.”
I popped the tart into my mouth, savoring the perfect balance of s’more flavor, with an elevated touch.
“Oh my god,” I mumbled around the bite, trying not to choke. My hand flew to cover my mouth. “This is so good.”
“It’s even better when someone doesn’t ruin the marshmallow.” Huck winked, and my stomach flipped over on itself.
I smiled with chipmunk cheeks. Bantering with Huck was a pleasant addition to this otherwise ridiculous newswriting assignment.
Huck moved the tray we’d completed to join rows and rows of other identical, perfect pastries. He washed his hands in the sink and slipped the apron from around his neck. I admired the way his gray T-shirt stretched across his chest, and when he dragged a hand down the plane of his stomach, I looked away to save myself from the embarrassment of drooling all over him.
I distracted myself by taking a sip of the coffee I’d been given. “So, Fireside Flannel Festival, huh?”
Huck lifted a flannel button-up shirt from a hook on the wall and began to slip his arms into it. His fingers moved quickly over the buttons.
