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“Organized?” He questioned with a mile-high cocked eyebrow.
“High-maintenance? That, in there, is over the top, although I am more than a tad jealous. One look and you know exactly what you needed versus my wild guess.” I bet his grocery lists were likely well-detailed and organized by aisle too.
“For some. I can’t function without order.” It was said so matter-of-factly, it had me wondering if he’d always been that way, or if something had happened to warrant that level of organization.
“Well, I’ll be thorough in my teachings.” I winked.
“I hope so.” A twinkle appeared in his eyes.
“Okay. Let’s begin. Measure out the flour and pour it into this.” I put the sieve over a bowl.
Cup by cup he measured it out, making it precise as he dragged his knife over the top of the measuring cup, his tongue sticking out just a little with concentration. He added it to the sieve, along with the other dry ingredients, and went to shake it.
“Gently,” I said, covering his hand with mine to slow his rhythm. “These things must be done delicately.”
He stared into my eyes, making my heartbeat peak faster than any cardio workout. “I can take it slow.”
I swallowed. Never in my life had baking been such a turn-on. Mind you, I’d never baked with a man before, not even with my brothers or father.
With the dry ingredients mixed, I pulled out the two frozen forks. “Now we’re going to incorporate the butter into the flour.”
“You mean mix?”
“Nope. You want to cut the butter into the mixture. It’ll resemble a coarse cornmeal.” I added the slices of butter into the mix and demonstrated. “Now you.”
The muscles on his forearm tightened with each downward push of the fork, and it was riveting to watch him concentrate on adding the butter without actually mixing. Once again, the tip of his tongue snuck out between his perfectly plump lips.
“That look okay?”
I broke my stare from his arms and focused on the flour mixture. It was crumbly and lumpy. “It’s perfect. Now you keep doing that, while I add the water.”
As hemixedI added the ice-cold water, a tablespoon at a time, explaining why it needed to be so cold. He was an attentive student and took in every syllable I spoke.
The mixture was perfect and ready for chilling before rolling. It seemed the dough and I had something in common.
After wrapping and tossing it in the freezer, I stood in front of his fridge. “Now we wait before rolling it out.” I stared into the depths of his eyes. “What should we do in the meantime?
A million little possibilities existed. A further tour of his house. A stop at the bedroom. A romp in his bed. I licked my lips, hoping for a little subtlety.
“We could make the filling?”
As if wrapped in smoke and blown away, my desire blew with it. “Good idea.”
The player in him clearly wasn’t interested in me, and with that realization, my heart shrunk.
Chapter Eleven
Libby handed me a steaming cup of coffee while I curled up on my worn-out, once-loved sofa; she always made the best homemade version of a latte, so I gave her free roam in my kitchen. “So, let me get this straight, you went berry picking and back to his place to bake a pie, and he didn’t so much as give you a goodbye, knee-weakening, foot tossed in the air kind of kiss?”
I shook my head and stared into the cup, watching as the little bubbles in the frothy milk popped one by one. “I did get a quick kiss on the cheek.”
“That doesn’t count.”
It did in my books. It was more than I’d had since Vera was born, but it had been a year before Vera’s father since I’d had a really good kiss; the exact kind Libby had just described. The kind that leaves you breathless too.
“And you wanted more?”
“At least try it out. It’s been a while.” I took a quick sip – the foam was sweet with a hint of caramel.
