“That’s pretty much what Tyler said.”
The conversation shut down soon after that, but I didn’t mind too much because it felt like more words than we’d ever exchanged before. Not counting threats and insults, obviously.
The conversation, plus that moment we’d had when he’d rested his forehead against mine, made me think that there could be something real here. Something real in him.
I was cautiously optimistic that he’d let me sneak past at least a few of his defenses.
“If you keep whistling, I’m going to bash you over the head with a rolling pin and put you in the oven,” Tyler told me one morning as we worked. “Dude, I was up all fucking night last night because some asshole downstairs set the fire alarm off three times.Threetimes. Then this morning Jess was all, ‘Oh, I’m ovulating.’” He shook his head. “What crazy world am I living in that it feels like a chore to have sex with my beautiful wife?”
“Beats me,” I said. “You guys doing okay?”
“We used to be spontaneous, you know? Now it’s like we’re on a schedule and I’d better not mess it up.” He let out a long breath. “Ignore me. I’m in a shitty mood.”
“Want me to teach you how to make biko today?” I asked him.
“Yeah? Seriously?” He brightened.
“Seriously. I even left the rice to soak overnight.”
Tyler grinned. “Hell, yes. I love that stuff.”
I finished loading up the cookies into the oven while Tyler sliced up a tray of brownies, and then I set out the ingredients for the biko on the counter.
“Huh,” Tyler said, eyeing up the coconut milk, coconut cream, rice, and brown sugar. “I thought it would be more complicated.”
“Nope,” I said. “Okay, so first we make the latik. That’s the coconut sprinkles that go on top.”
Tyler nodded.
I grabbed a saucepan, tipped the coconut cream into it, and set it on the stovetop on medium-high heat.
“Keep stirring it,” I said. “And don’t let it burn.”
“That’s it?” Tyler asked.
“Yeah, it takes about fifteen minutes to separate,” I said. There was a reason biko was one of the first things my lola taught me to cook. It was simple. “But that’s it.”
Baking wasn’t always about making fancy shit. Baking was about finding the balance between simple ingredients. I always thought of that saying about the whole being more than the sum of its parts. That applied for most things, I guessed, but there was something transformative about baking. Even a basic pound cake was a little like a miracle—those simple ingredients coming together to create something delicious. All it took was a little bit of heat.
Outside, the bell on the front door jingled regularly as customers came and went, and I went and checked if the display cases needed to be topped up. We were almost out of brownies, and the cookies were half gone already. I still couldn’t quite believe that we were as busy as we were. Part of me had been prepared for business to taper off after our initial opening, but it showed no signs of slowing down.
Chase was working the espresso machine like a pro. He was moving easily behind the counter, like he’d been doing this for years instead of weeks. He was cute as hell too, even wearing his customary scowl. It was nice to see it directed at the steam wand instead of me. He turned and caught sight of me and flashed me a quick smile.
Crazy how much things had changed between us. And all it had taken was a little bit of heat.
Warmth settled in my chest at the unexpected show of affection, but I didn’t make a big deal out of it. I went to the back and loaded up a tray with what I needed and filled the cabinets.
When I went to the back again, Tyler was still stirring the latik and the scent of coconut filled the kitchen. “Looks good,” I said, peering into the saucepan. “Needs a while longer, though.”
“It’s been fifteen minutes, though. How can you tell? Or is this one of those ‘you’ll just know’ recipes?” Tyler asked.
“Pretty much, yeah,” I said, grinning.
The timer beeped on the cookies and I unloaded the oven, and by then I could tell at a glance that the latik was perfect. It really was instinct for me.
“So separate it from the oil,” I instructed. “Don’t throw it out. You can use it to oil the baking tray.”
With the latik ready, we moved onto the biko itself. “Make sure you wash the rice,” I said, “or my lola will know, and she’ll drive all the way from Hampton Roads just to yell at you about it.”
