Miles did the finger test with the water, but then confirmed he was right with a thermometer. He expertly stirred his concoction, almost as if it were second nature to him, and instructed me how to do the same with my own. I had thought it was sort of goofy at first—I mean, this was a date, and we were baking bread—but watching Miles in his element was nice. He was so chill and relaxed while cooking, his smile unguarded and easily offered. Even his shoulders seemed to loosen up. Miles might have been good at making repairs, and physical labor clearly paid the bills, but he loved baking more than anything.
“So why bread?” I asked as he took the dough out of the bowl and I did the same with mine. “Of all things?”
“It’s both a science and an art,” he said. “Measuring your ingredients is straightforward—it has the same results every time. But kneading dough isn’t easy. You must pull forward and push back and turn just a little before doing it again. If you’re too rough, the dough will be heavy or it could end up full of air, neither of which makes for good eating.”
“I think that’s the most you’ve ever said in one breath,” I replied.
Miles ignored the jab, looked at my dough, then slowly performed the kneading motion on his own. “Like this.”
I watched a few times and tried to mimic. “Good?”
“Fold it over more.” He again performed the motion.
I did so.
“You’re too rough.”
“What are, things I never want to hear in bed,” I said, trying the kneading motion once more.
That got another little laugh out of Miles. “You’re cute.”
“So you’ve said.”
“At the cost of another sex joke, you’re still too rough,” he stated.
I paused and looked up at him. “Oh, come on. You have to stand behind and knead with me. This is aprime moment.”
“Is it?”
“This will make or break our future together,” I joked.
Miles stopped working his dough and stepped behind me. He was warm and solid, and as Miles slid his arms around me and put his hands over my own, it was like finding home.
Miles tilted his head to the side, resting close to mine. “Like this,” he murmured as he guided my hands.
“I could get used to this,” I replied, falling into the calm repetition of fold, press, turn.
“It’s nice,” Miles agreed. He planted a kiss on the side of my head.
THE NIGHTturned out to be one of the sweetest and most enjoyable dates I’d ever been on. No awkward small talk, no trying to find where you clicked with the other person. Miles was so easy to get along with, and by the time the bread was baking, we were drinking wine and laughing as if we’d shared that moment in his kitchen a hundred times before. Unfortunately, I wasn’t very good with wine. I remembered eating the bread—Miles’s was better than mine, naturally—and pasta afterward, I believe, but the rest of the night….
I vaguely remembered trying to kiss Miles, I meankisskiss, like let’s-get-it-the-fuck-on, and him stopping me. Then nothing. So when I woke up in his bed, I was more than a little confused.
“Good morning.”
I grunted and rolled over to see Miles sitting on the edge, holding a cup in one hand. “Why am I here?”
“I wasn’t going to let you drive home last night,” he replied. “Here. Have some water.”
I sat up, took the cup, and downed the drink in one go. “I’m sorry,” I said when I came up for air. “I should have only had one drink. Me and red wine don’t mix.”
“It’s okay. You’re an adorable, handsy drunk.”
“Am I?”
Miles set the cup on the nightstand. “I slept on the couch.”
“Oh, Miles, I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
