“You know,” I say as I’m dusting flour on a work surface, “for someone who claims to like keeping things simple, this seems unnecessarily complicated.”
Jonah laughs, and the sound warms me from the inside out. “Brioche isn’t simple. But it’s honest. You can’t fake it or rush it. You have to put in the time, be patient, trust the process.”
“Is that your philosophy on everything?”
“Most things.” He moves to stand next to me, showing me how to shape the dough. His hands are strong and sure, moving with a confidence that makes me wonder what else those hands are good at. “Some things are worth the wait.”
Is he talking about bread? Or is he talking about something else entirely?
I don’t ask. Instead, I try to copy his movements, shaping the dough into something that looks... well, it definitely doesn’t look as good as his, but it’s not awful…maybe?
“Not bad,” he says, inspecting my work. “A little lopsided, but you’ll get there.”
“Story of my life. A little lopsided but getting there.”
He tilts his head, studying me with an expression I can’t quite read. “You do that a lot.”
“Do what?”
“Make jokes at your own expense. Like you don’t quite believe you’re as capable as you actually are.”
The observation catches me off guard. I busy myself with shaping another piece of dough, avoiding his eyes. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do.” He doesn’t push, though. Just hands me another ball of dough and says, “For the record, you’re doing great. With the baking. With the girls. With all of it.”
My throat feels tight. “Thanks.”
We work in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the hum of the oven and the occasional car passing outside. It should be awkward, but it’s not. It’s comfortable. Easy.
Too easy.
“So,” Jonah says eventually, “what made you want to be a teacher?”
I consider deflecting, but something about the early morning hour, the dim lighting, the intimacy of working side by side makes me answer honestly. “My second-grade teacher, Mrs. Chen. She was the first person who made me feel like I was good at something. Like I mattered.”
“And you want to do that for other kids?” It’s almost a statement like he knows, but he still asks.
“Exactly.” I shape another piece of dough, getting better at it. “I know it sounds really corny, but I really believe teachers can change lives. They changed mine.”
“That’s not corny. That’s completely beautiful.” His voice is soft, sincere. “The twins are lucky to have you, even if it’s just for a little while.”
Just for a little while.
The words sit heavy in my chest.
I force a smile. “Well, I’m lucky to have this gig. Beats living on Sarah’s torture couch.”
“Right. The temporary thing.” Something shifts in his expression, but before I can analyze it, he’s moving past me again. Except this time, the space is even tighter because I’m standing right where he needs to be, and when he tries to squeeze by, his chest brushes against my back.
We both freeze.
“Sorry,” he says, but he doesn’t move away. And his solid warmth is behind me, close enough that if I leaned back even an inch, I’d be fully pressed against him. My heart gallops like the Kentucky Derby winner.
“It’s fine,” I manage, my voice coming out breathier than I intended.
I should step aside. Give him room. But my feet seem to have forgotten how to move, and he’s still standing there, close enough that I can feel the rise and fall of his breathing.
“Chloe,” he says quietly, his hand on my waist.
