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“Well, it isn’t even in the oven yet, so I don’t know how you can smell it.”
He smiled. “Shifter, remember?”
“It’s dough.”
“With yeast. I can smell that.”
I guess any attempt at trying to hide food from him was going to fail utterly. I gave in. “I’m… going to try to make that bread pudding stuff,” I confessed, ears flushing again.
Taavi leaned back in my arms, his expression excited. “Capriotada?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re making it for me?” I couldn’t tell what emotion was layered under that question.
“Should I not?” I asked, suddenly nervous.
“No! I mean. Yes, you should.” He smiled at me, an absolutely adorable dimple forming on one side. “Especially since you started already.”
I shrugged, feeling self-conscious all over again.
Taavi pressed into my chest again and hugged me with his good arm. “You’re making mecapriotada,” he murmured into my t-shirt.
“Yes?”
He leaned back to look up at me, and his eyes were bright. “That’s… so sweet.”
“Well, at the moment it’s still a bit savory,” I replied, unable to help myself.
Taavi laughed, because I am the luckiest fucking bastard on the planet, and he actually thought I was funny.
He stepped away from me, a smile still playing across his lips. “Can I help?”
“Have you made this before?” I asked him.
“I’vehelpedbefore. When I was a kid.”
“That’s more often than I’ve done it,” I pointed out, and he laughed again. “But I’m pretty sure the next bit is baking the bread, and that Ihavedone.” I got milk out of the fridge and brushed it over the tops of the rolls, then stuck them into the oven.
“Just how much are you making?” Taavi asked, sounding mildly alarmed.
“Enough for extra bread,” I answered.
I’d made more than I needed, because it is a cardinal rule of baking that you never make exactly what you need. First of all, baking is a fickle-ass mistress, and if you do that, you’re likely to fuck something up and have no backups. Second, you have to make enough for snitching and snacking. I’m a decent enough baker that I can usually count on avoiding the first, but that was also a recipe for not avoiding the second.
Taavi grinned. “Good.”
“Don’t count yourbolillosbefore they’re baked,” I warned him, and he laughed.
“Boh-leeyos.”
“There are Ls in there,” I pointed out.
He laughed again. “It’s an A-yay.”
“What?”
“The double-L. It’s a letter. Pronounced more or less like a Y.”
