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My mother grabs a bowl and hands it to him, while I lean against the kitchen island, taking immense delight in the sight of him in my kitchen, helping my mother. It’s like when she was making focaccia, but it shows how far our relationship has evolved.
Man, if I only knew back then that I’d end up sleeping with the man. I was so innocent.
“Need any help?” I ask him.
He glances up at me and gives me a soft smile, warmth in his eyes. “I’ve got it.”
Grabbing the measuring cups and a knife, he starts cutting out the butter and shortening. “See, the shortening is needed because it has a high melting point. It creates flakiness. That tender melt-in-your-mouth feeling you get from a good crust. And the butter, well, nothing beats it. It gives that rich, unmistakable smooth flavor. Now, generally you want your butter in the freezer, especially when the temperature outside is hot, but if I work fast, it should be okay.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about but I’m fascinated, watching the muscles in his forearms as he works. “Why is that?” I ask.
“Because you want your dough as cold as possible. That’s why you have to use cold water.”
“Shit, I probably would have used warm,” my mother says, also watching him like I am.
“Common mistake,” he says, giving her an assuring smile. “We want the dough cold so that the fat from the shortening and the butter don’t melt while you’re working on it. They need to melt in the oven, where the steam created will help separate the crust into those flaky layers you want.”
“Okay, you have to tell me how you know all this,” I say. “Don’t tell me it was the army.”
“Actually,” he says, “it was the army. We had downtime, and that’s what I did. Improved morale, got my mind off of what was happening, and was a nice change from the bloody awful food.”
“You need your own cooking show,” my mother says.
He laughs quietly, with a genuine smile that lights up his whole face and makes me dizzy all over again. “I definitely do not need that. But I am happy to help out when I can. Now, I need to work fast. Do you have a pastry cutter? Two forks will do.”
“I just ordered from Amazon,” my mother says proudly as she hands it to him.
We watch as he starts using it to cut up the butter and shortening into small chunks, and then we help by adding ice to the cold water and adding it a little bit at a time as he stirs with a spatula. With flour liberally applied to the counter, he rolls out the dough until he’s made a few dough discs that he wraps in plastic and then puts in the fridge.
“How long do we have to wait?” my mother asks.
“Two hours at the very least,” he says. He nods at the saucepan. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine with the rest of the recipe.”
My mother grabs his arm firmly, looking him in the eye. “I don’t know how to thank you. You’ve been so kind.”
Harrison looks mildly embarrassed. “It’s not a problem, Mrs. Evans.”
“Please, call me Evelyn,” she says. “And let me make you a cup of tea.”
She turns around and starts ransacking the cupboards for tea. All the boxes are empty, which means the bags are all over the place, complete chaos.
“It’s all right,” he says.
“He likes coffee, anyway,” I tell her. And since I know she’s now going to insist that he has coffee, I say, “And if you’re making any, I’ll have some too.”
“No problem,” she says. I know it makes her feel good to do simple things for people, especially after Harrison just helped her with her baking.
While her back is turned and she brings out the coffee canister, I take my time staring at Harrison.
My god, I’m freaking lucky. Not that I have any claim to him, per se, but I still can’t believe what happened. After playing it over and over in my head and now having him here in front of me, it’s like a fantasy come to life.
Harrison Cole.
The bodyguard.
The man I never thought I would get to know, the man I never thought would be mine, has become so much more than what I had imagined.
He stares right back at me too, his eyes soft, his expression warm. No longer guarded, no longer worried. We don’t even have to speak to each other to know what the other is feeling—we can just be. Sure, I don’t want to gawk at him when my mother is watching, but these stolen glances and hidden moments, they mean the world to me already.
Good lord, I want to jump him.
“I have dark roast, is that okay?” my mother says, turning around, and we both whip our eyes toward her.
