Chapter 5
Chloe
This was a mistake,and I knew that going in.
Not coming to the bakery— I don’t regret that. But I definitely didn’t think through the logistics of working in a professional kitchen with Jonah Westerland when said kitchen is roughly the size of my college dorm room and he’s... everywhere. Moving. Moving. Moving.
Even the twins don’t move around this much.
“Can you hand me the vanilla?” he asks, not looking up from the bowl where he’s whisking eggs.
I turn to grab it from the shelf behind me, and my hip bumps into his as he shifts to reach for something else. The contact sends a jolt through me that’s completely inappropriate for five-thirty in the morning.
“Sorry,” I mutter, handing him the bottle.
“No problem.” His fingers brush mine as he takes it, and I swear his hand lingers for half a second longer than necessary. “You’re doing great, by the way. Natural baker instincts.”
I snort. “I’m literally just handing you things. A trained monkey could do this.”
“A trained monkey wouldn’t make me laugh.” He glances at me, and there’s something in his eyes— something warmand teasing that I haven’t seen before. “So you’re already an improvement.”
My stomach flips. “Careful, that almost sounded like a compliment.”
“It was a compliment.” He goes back to whisking, but I catch the hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “I don’t usually let people in my kitchen. You should feel honored.”
“Oh, I’m deeply honored. Should I curtsy? I feel like I should curtsy.”
“Please don’t. You’ll knock over the flour and we know what that looks like.”
I look down and realize I’m standing about six inches from a large rolling container of all-purpose flour. “Point taken.”
Jonah moves past me to the oven, and I have to press myself against the counter to let him by. The space is so tight that I feel the heat radiating off him, smell the combination of soap and cinnamon that I’m starting to associate specifically with him. It’s doing things to my concentration.
“So,” I say, desperate for distraction, “what are we making?”
“Brioche. And before you ask, yes, it’s complicated. Yes, it takes forever. And yes, it’s worth it.” He pulls out a stand mixer that looks like it could double as a small car. “Ever used one of these?”
“I’ve seen them on cooking shows. Does that count?”
“Not even a little bit.” But he’s smiling as he sets it up, and I realize this is what he looks like when he’s relaxed. When he’s not carrying the weight of single fatherhood and running a business and trying to hold everything together. He looks younger. Happier.
I want to make him look like this more often.
“Okay, so first we’re going to—” He stops mid-sentence as I lean forward to see what he’s doing, and suddenly we’re close.Too close. His arm is against mine, and I can feel his breath on my cheek, and neither of us is moving.
“Sorry,” I say, but I don’t step back.
“Don’t be.” His voice is rougher than it was a second ago.
I look up at him, and the intensity in his dark eyes makes my breath catch. He’s looking at me like I’m something more than just his employee. Like I’m something he wants but knows he shouldn’t have.
The mixer beeps, breaking the moment.
Jonah steps back quickly, clearing his throat. “Right. Brioche. Focus.”
“Focusing,” I agree, though my heart is racing and I’m pretty sure my face is bright red.
He walks me through the process of adding butter to the dough in stages, letting the mixer work its magic while we prep the proofing baskets. Every few minutes, we have to navigate around each other in the small space, and every time we touch, just a brush of shoulders, his hand steadying my elbow when I stumble, my fingers grazing his when I pass him a tool, it feels deliberate. Electric.
