AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Lachlan
“I’m goingto fuck up this cake,” I declared, my motions incredibly unpracticed and disjointed compared to how smooth and confident Belle appeared when she demonstrated precisely what to do. “You know that, right?”
“You’re doing great,” she assured me with a heartwarming smile. “Just keep folding in the bananas. You want to be gentle. You want to…make love to the batter. Not pound the shit out of it.”
I burst out laughing, trying to keep a steady hand as I mixed…folded in the bananas. “This is a first for me.”
“What? Baking a cake?”
“No. Well, yes. I’ve never been much of a baker. But I meant using sex to tell me how to treat the batter.”
“What can I say? I figured it best to put it into terms you could relate to.” She winked, a playful air about her that was a complete one-eighty from the uneasiness that had consumed her when we first walked into the house a half-hour ago.
Since she started showing me how to make a hummingbird cake, something I’d never even heard of until today, all the nervous trepidation had evaporated. Her eyes gleamed with excitement, a different kind of energy sizzling between us as she showed me what to do. It was enough to make me want to bake with her until the end of time, if for no other reason than to see that look of pure happiness again and again.
“Who taught you how to bake?” I asked somewhat hesitantly, hoping I hadn’t strayed into personal territory. It seemed like a natural question.
“My meemaw.” She brushed flour off her t-shirt.
As amazing as she looked in her dress and heels, I found her even more alluring now. Probably because she wore something comfortable. I’d have been lying if I said the tiny shorts didn’t leave my mouth watering. And the oversized t-shirt that said “It was me. I let the dogs out” was the icing on an already adorable cake. It was quirky and eccentric, fitting her personality perfectly.
“I assume that’s your grandmother?”
“Yes. She loved to bake. She was the quintessential Southern grandma. Whenever I came over and she could tell I was struggling with something, she dragged me into the kitchen. And every time, it was exactly the distraction I needed. This recipe was one of her favorites. In fact, her hummingbird cake was famous throughout the county.”
“You’re adorable when you get all Southern.” I flashed her a smile before returning my attention to my current task, confident I was going to mess this up. Yet despite my insistence I was not the person to do this, Belle wouldn’t hear it. Claimed anyone could bake if they simply took the time to respect the process.
“Get all Southern?”
“Your accent isn’t usually overly strong. Don’t get me wrong. The second you opened your mouth, I knew you were from the South, but right now, talking about your grandmother, it was a bit more noticeable. And adorable.”
“Meemaw’s accent was always a bit more country than mine. When I talk about her, I guess I kind of channel her. After she died, do you know what I did whenever I felt like I needed to talk to her?” She glanced at me as she sifted more flour into the bowl for me to fold in.
“Bake?”
“Exactly. I’d bake just like we used to. I’d even have entire conversations with her. Most people go to cemeteries and talk to their loved one’s grave. That never made sense to me. Why would you go to an empty field to talk to a decomposing corpse? If you wanted to feel close to someone, why wouldn’t you do something that reminded you of them?”
“That’s why I surf,” I offered, much to my surprise. But it felt right. “To feel closer to someone I lost.”
She brought her gaze to mine, a moment of quiet reflection passing between us. Neither of us spoke, but in the silence, we exchanged a profound understanding.
Clearing her throat, she looked away, focusing back on the batter. “Now we need to gently add the pineapple. Even more delicate than before. Don’t want the pineapple to become mush. We want those tasty little bits to be part of the cake. And we also don’t want to overmix it. That’s what makes a cake dense. With the banana, pineapple, and walnuts, it’s already a heavy cake, but it should be light and fluffy. Not chewy.”
With every word she spoke, she grew more and more passionate. I wanted to ask what she did for a living. The way she moved around the kitchen, stealing a taste here and there, adding a touch of cinnamon or nutmeg, made me almost certain she had to be some sort of professional baker.
“Maybe you should do this part, since you’re the resident expert.” I attempted to step back and hand her the rubber spatula.
Instead, she clasped her fingers over mine on the handle, forcing me back to the island. Standing slightly behind me and to the right, she guided my hand and arm, her moves practiced and graceful.
“That’s it,” she encouraged, her voice soothing. “It’s all in the motion.”
There was nothing erotic or lewd about what we were doing. We were simply mixing a cake batter, for crying out loud. But the way my heart rate kicked up and breathing grew ragged, you’d think she were standing behind me wearing nothing but a sexy little apron and those damn heels she wore to dinner.
“Bloody hell,” I groaned.
“What?” Her eyes darted to the batter before returning to me. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I responded quickly. “At least nothing to do with the cake.”
