“Orgasmic?”
“Your bread satisfies the pleasure principle of the id,” I said, grinning as Miles started laughing in earnest. “Come on! It’ll be fun. I’ll go with you, if that’s okay.”
“That sounds nice.”
I PEEKEDinto the out-of-order room as Miles finished for the day. “Wow, this is major progress.”
He stood from shutting his tool kit and picked it up. “The shelves built into the walls are fixed, but these standing shelves need to be reinforced. Some aren’t salvageable. I’ll build new ones to replace them.”
I must have had a look on my face. Even crappy shelves would cost money, and me without a piggy bank to bust open for a rainy day.
Miles said, “Don’t worry. I’ll deal with the fees and Selectmen.”
I nodded.
“Come to dinner?”
“Now?” I looked at my watch.
“I want to teach you to bake bread. It takes a while.”
I grinned and crossed my arms over my chest. “Oh, really? Are we going to do it à la Patrick Swayze inGhost? You get close behind me, put your hands over mine, and—knead dough?” I asked suggestively.
Miles shook his head as he walked past and left the room. He was singing “Unchained Melody” under his breath. God, I hoped my baking lesson ended with some touchy-feely time at a pottery wheel—sans the pottery wheel.
After Miles helped me close the library for the night, I followed him in my car to a big Queen Anne Victorian home not far from the center of town. Even in the dark, I could make out the bright paint, massive porch, and the ancient trees with branches hanging over the lower roof. I got out of my car, my breath coming out in frozen puffs in the cold night air.
“This is some place,” I said.
Miles locked his truck, then motioned for me to follow. I hurried behind, snow crunching loudly under our feet. Inside, his home was an interesting mix of country aesthetic and no doubt expensive antiques that better suited the elegant home. Miles hadn’t struck me as an antique-y sort of guy, but then again, he didn’t seem to be the sort who baked and sang fifties love songs either.
He took my coat and hung up our winter garments before leading the way into a large kitchen. “Wait here.”
I stood at the counter, watching Miles go into the wide-open living room. He turned on the television, brought up an instant movie account, flipped through the options for a moment, then selected one.Ghoststarted playing.
“I knew it,” I said as Miles came back and washed his hands at the sink. “You’re a big softie, aren’t you?”
“A little.”
“Patrick Swayze your kind of guy?”
Miles shook his head. “No. You are, though.” He dried his hands on a towel. “This whole librarian thing you have going on is cute.”
I looked at myself. Different checkered pants, a tie, a baggy gray sweater buttoned up the front—okay, I looked alittlelike the stereotype. “Cute, huh?”
Miles chuckled under his breath. “Sexy,” he corrected.
“Yeah?”
He shrugged one shoulder and grabbed two mixing bowls. “Here’s your bowl.”
“We’re really baking bread?”
“Yes.” He fetched little packages and set them beside me. “Here’s your yeast.”
“Yummy.”
“You have to be gentle. Yeast is a living thing. You mix it with water, but if it’s too cold, it won’t grow, and if it’s too hot, you’ll kill it.”
