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Exactly. I haven’t seen him in days, so I’m supposed to still be mad at him, not acting like a bitch in heat around him. Besides, I’m supposed to be his teacher right now.
I’m a teacher. He’s just another student.
So teach, Claire.
I clear my throat. “First we have to make the batter. The ingredients are all here on the board.”
I point to it.
“We just have to put them all in a blender and mix them well.”
“And if I don’t have a blender?” Ryker asks.
I almost laugh. Ryker Hawthorne can’t afford a blender? Then I remind myself that he’s a student, just another student.
I put on my teaching face. “If you don’t have a blender you can make the mixture by hand, but you have to mix the ingredients well, which means your hand is bound to get tired.”
“It won’t.” Ryker grabs a whisk from the container on one of the tables. “I may spend most of my time behind a desk, but I’ve got strong hands. I lift weights sometimes.”
Talk about defensive. Still, I believe what he just said. I can imagine those long fingers wrapped around the handle of a whisk, driving it around the mixing bowl for several minutes. And I do like men who work with their hands.
Strong hands. Shit. He’s not trying to seduce me on purpose, is he?
“So, where do I get the ingredients?” Ryker asks.
The ingredients? Oh, right.
“Actually, we’re not making the batter. You need to chill it for at least half an hour for it to work. The longer the better. So we’ll use the mixture that’s already in the fridge.”
I walk over to it but Ryker beats me. He opens the door of the fridge. I take out the mixing bowl—I guess it’s a good thing I made too much batter so there’s still plenty left over—and he takes it from me.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
He brings the bowl to the table. I grab a spoon and dip it into the mixture.
“See.” I move the spoon around. “No lumps.”
Then I lift the spoon and let the batter drip from it.
“Not too thin. Not too thick.”
“Just creamy,” Ryker says.
He takes some of the batter dripping from the spoon to coat the tip of his index finger, which he rubs against his thumb.
“And sticky.”
He parts his fingers, leaving the batter hanging between them in threads. Creamy threads. Then he rubs them again.
Creamy. Sticky. Between his fingers. Something else comes to mind.
Fuck.
The spoon slips from my hand. It drops into the bowl and causes a splash. Some of the batter splatters on the front of my apron.
“Oops!” Ryker exclaims. “Dirty apron.”
Yup. A black apron splattered with thick white drops. A dirty apron, which I told him last time I wouldn’t mind him giving me.
Great. Just great.
I wipe it off as I scold myself.
Focus, Claire.
“What next?” Ryker asks.
I straighten my shoulders. “We separate as much of the batter as we need, and since we’re making savory crepes, we’ll add in some fresh herbs and some Parmesan. And by we, I mean you.”
I hand him the jar of herbs and the bar of Parmesan cheese.
“Add as many as you like while I heat the pan.”
This way, I can put some much needed distance between us. Or so I think until I notice Ryker standing behind me.
“What are you doing?” I ask him in a flurry of panic.
Ever since I started cooking, I’ve dreamed of having a man wrap his arms around my waist from behind and rest his head on my shoulder, maybe kiss my cheek, while I’m standing over a stove. This is the first time it’s ever come close to happening. And with Ryker no less.
Maybe it’s not so much dreaming of a man wrapping his arms around me from behind as it is dreaming of Ryker doing it.
I hold my breath. If he does it, I might just turn around and kiss him.
He doesn’t. He just leans over my shoulder and holds his hand over the pan.
“How hot does it have to be?”
“Not too hot,” I answer as I try to hide my frustration. “If it’s too hot, the batter won’t spread.”
“Okay. And what’s that coating the pan?”
“Butter, so the batter won’t stick.”
“I see.”
He’s such a good student, which just makes my frustration worse. I know Ryker takes things seriously, but for once I just wish he would loosen up and not play by the rules.
“Isn’t it hot enough now?” Ryker asks.
I place my hand over it and realize it is. I also realize that if I don’t start concentrating right now, I’m not going to get these crepes right, which means I’ll be failing both as a cook and as a teacher, which will get me even more frustrated.
Enough play. If he wants us to cook seriously, then we will. I will.
“Get me the batter,” I tell him.
