Page 28 of Win a Date with a Baker

She reaches into the paper bag and hands me half a sandwich. “You should eat before you teach.”

I unwrap it. Extra mustard. The pickle chips I like. Exactly the bread I always order.

“You remembered all of that?”

She shrugs, as if to say, “What, like it’s hard?”

Like of course she’d remember. I don’t know why that hits me as hard as it does.

Maybe because so few people actually listen.

We eat standing across from one another, trading bites of sandwich and sipping champagne straight from mismatched coffee mugs because neither of us can find the flutes Rachel insists we own.

When we’re finished, Elizabeth wipes her hands and grins. “What are we making?”

I think for a second.

“My brown butter maple filling.”

“The famous one?”

“The very same.”

She grins. “I won’t ask for the recipe.”

“Good.”

“I’ll simply figure it out.”

I point a wooden spoon at her. “Those are fighting words.”

She laughs. “Teach me, Donut Daddy.”

I nearly choke. “I thought we’d retired that nickname.”

“I don’t think your forearms get a vote.”

“My forearms have never been consulted on anything.”

“They’re very expressive.”

I shake my head, unable to stop smiling.

“Hopeless.”

“Completely.”

I hand her a saucepan.

“All right.”

She squares her shoulders dramatically.

“I’m ready.”

We work side by side in the quiet kitchen. She measures while I brown butter. I explain why the milk solids matter. Why temperature changes flavor.

Why patience matters more than heat.