He stopped walking, so I didtoo.
"Ash?" He raised one eyebrow. "When we look back on this night, do you want us to remember it as the night you went hungry because you'dmade dowith a fuckingsalad?"
Whenwelooked back on it. I sucked in my lips, trying to keep my faceserious.
"No?"
"Damn straight," he said with a nod, and led me on down thestreet.
We veered off Weaver Street into an alley that led to the back entrance of the bakery as well as the shops on either side, and Cal let us in to his backroom. Even though I'd only been in there once before, I swear, I'd have known exactly where I was based on smell alone. Cinnamon, vanilla, and butter seemed to be baked into the very walls. It was heaven and home all atonce.
"Welcome toFanaille," he said, holding out his arms like a game showhost.
The room was fairly small, and every inch was perfectly organized. A gigantic wooden worktable, easily as deep as two or three countertops, dominated the center of the room. It was old and scarred, but scrupulously clean. A giant machine with rollers, probably for dough, was affixed to one end. It looked ancient, and I found myself curious to know how the hell it worked. At one end of the space was a giant row of ovens with side-by-side double doors, at the other was an enormous utility sink and dishwashing area, along with a door markedSupplies. Racks lined up side by side along the exterior wall, and on the wall that divided the back room from the counter area, enormous refrigerators flanked the swingingdoor.
Cal shucked his coat and put it over the back of a high-backed stool on one side of the worktable. I followed suit, taking off my nylon down jacket and laying it over the top of his. He stared at the chair for a second, like maybe something about the sight of our jackets together gave him a deep sense ofsatisfaction.
I took a step closer, backing him against the polished wood and leaning against him. I could imagine him bending me over that worktable. I wanted it so badly, I didn't know how to begin to articulate it, and I was kinda hoping he'd be able to read my mind. The heat in his eyes wasscorching.
But my stupid stomach chose that exact moment to rumble, so fucking loudly that it echoed around the openspace.
Cal chuckled and pushed me firmly away, while I felt my face turn red. "We can go upstairs," he told me. "I'm sure I have some chicken. Or pasta." He grimaced. "Ithink."
"You think?" I asked, and heshrugged.
"Cooking's not really my thing. I do better when there's a recipe to follow. A scientificprocess."
I smirked, looking at the precisely organized contents of the room, at his completely put-together appearance. "I believe that." I reached for his waist again. "I've never been very good at baking. But I'm a pretty decentcook."
"That so? Well, there's a kitchen upstairs with non-bakery food. You want to impress me by throwing something together?" he teased. He lifted his arms to wrap around the back of my neck, fitting us together, and drew my head down so he could whisper in my ear. "Spoiler: I'm prepared to be easilyimpressed."
I wanted to go upstairs - I wanted to see where he lived, where he slept. But I already knew that if I wanted to get to know the real Caelan James, it would happen down inthiskitchen, where he made his gorgeouscreations.
"How about you make something for me down here first," Isuggested.
He frowned. "Down here? Likewhat?"
"Like... seven dozen tequila limecupcakes?"
"Seven doz... Oh. No!" He shook his head and dropped his hands to my shoulders. "I can do that tomorrow. Before the bakeryopens."
"Really? Don't you haveother thingsto do in the morning besides making Karen's crazy cupcakes?" I held his waist against me morefirmly.
He watched me closely, assessing. "I do," he allowed. "I was going to wake up really early to get them done. But I can definitely think ofother thingsI could doinstead."
I really hoped he and I were thinking of the sameother things.My heart was thundering in my chest, just imaginingthem.
"Well, let me offer an alternative." I stepped back and unbuttoned my cuffs. "Why don't we try staying up really late, instead?" I rolled my left sleeve up to my elbow. "I'll be your sous chef in exchange for us eating cupcakes fordinner."
"You want to eat cupcakes for dinner?" His voice was a low rumble, sexy andamused.
"When we look back on this night, I think I would be perfectly happy to remember it as the night when we saidfuck itand ate cupcakes for dinner," I told him solemnly, and his wide grin waseverything.
"My sous chef." He tapped his lips meditatively. "I thought you said you weren't good atbaking."
"Maybe I just haven't, uh..." I got distracted, trying to roll my right sleeve, and making a mess of it. I pushed it up my arm hastily. "Maybe I haven't had the rightteacher."
"Hmmm." Cal grabbed my sleeve and tugged it back down my arm, then slowly, carefully rolled it back up until it sat above my elbow, neat and tidy and perfect. "I think I could be a very good teacher. For the rightstudent."
