We break apart too soon, both of us breathing a little faster. I know I’m smiling like an idiot, and his face is flushed in a way that makes him look younger, almost boyish.
“I guess we should get to the lesson,” he says, but his hands are still on my waist like he’s not quite ready to let go.
“The what?” I tease, still dizzy from the kiss.
His laugh is warm, rumbling through his chest. “Your dough awaits.”
I follow him into the kitchen, noting how he keeps glancing back at me like he’s making sure I’m still there. The space is immaculate—stainless steel surfaces gleaming, everything in its place. On the center workspace, a bowl sits covered with a damp cloth.
“You’ll need to score the dough before putting it into the oven,” he says, pulling the cloth away to reveal a perfectly risen round of dough.
I stare at the pale, puffy mass. “Uh, okay.” I tilt my head, pretending to assess it critically. “I’d say it’s a six out of ten.”
His laughter fills the kitchen, rich and genuine. “I can’t tell if you’re joking or being serious.” He shakes his head, still chuckling. “Sorry I didn’t properly explain. Here.” He hands me what looks like a razor blade attached to a handle. “Put a few slashes into the top for controlled expansion.”
“Ah.” I accept the tool, turning it over in my hand. “So that’s what those are for. I always wondered why bread had those pretty patterns.”
“It’s functional and decorative,” he says, moving closer to watch.
The instruction seems simple enough—just cut some lines in dough. But with Noah standing so close I can smell his soap and that hint of yeast and flour that always clings to him, with his gaze focused intently on my hands, the task feels monumental. The heat of his attention is like standing under the noon sun, making my skin tingle with awareness.
I position the blade at an angle like I’ve seen bakers do, trying to look confident. The blade drags through the soft dough, leaving a clean line. I make two more cuts, creating a simple pattern.
“How’s that?” I set the razor down and step back to admire my work.
“Perfect.” His approval makes me ridiculously proud. “Now put it into the oven. It’s already preheated.”
Using the peel, I slide the scored dough onto the hot baking stone, trying not to flinch at the blast of heat from the oven. Another simple task made nerve-wracking by the weight of everything this represents—not just learning to bake, but sharing this part of Noah’s world, being trusted with something he loves.
“I’ve never been good at this,” I admit, closing the oven door. “Baking, I mean. I can barely manage slice-and-bake cookies.”
“That’s only because you haven’t practiced it enough.” He leans against the counter, crossing his arms in a way that draws attention to his forearms. “It took me years to become good at baking. Anyone who loves food as much as you can become great at it.”
I twist my lips, fighting a smile. “How do you know I actually love food? Maybe I’m just faking it in order to have a job.”
He pushes off from the counter, moving closer with a knowing look. “The dough is soft and fluffy, with a rich, buttery flavor that complements the generous swirl of cinnamon. Topped with a smooth, creamy icing that melts in your mouth, each bite is a heavenly experience.”
I blink, the words tickling something in my memory. They sound familiar, but why would he be talking about cinnamon rolls when we’re baking bread? And why does it sound like... like...
“Hey...” Recognition dawns. “That’s from one of my reviews.”
“It is.” He nods, looking pleased with himself. “Of the new cinnamon roll at Tall Order.”
I bite into my smile, warmth spreading through my chest. “Noah. I wrote that months ago.”
He looks down at his feet, shuffling them slightly against the tile floor. The gesture is endearing, almost shy. “I, uh, might have gone and read all of your reviews I could find when I couldn’t sleep last night.”
My jaw drops. He stayed up reading my work? All those reviews, from the glowing recommendations to the harsh critiques, the silly puns I can’t resist and the overwrought descriptions I always promise myself I’ll tone down next time?
“That’s an exact quote?” The question comes out slightly breathless.
“I might have paraphrased it.” He looks up with a crooked grin that makes my heart skip. “I don’t have a perfect memory. Just for the things that matter.”
“It doesn’t matter. You reading my reviews...” I laugh, trying to play it casual even as my heart races. “I mean, what, do you like me or something?”
The words come out teasing, light, but underneath them is real question, real hope. I want to hear him say it, want him to put into exact, precise words what’s happening between us. I want clarity, definition, something solid to hold onto.
Noah’s throat moves as he swallows, and then he’s stepping into my space, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. He fills my vision, blocks out everything else until there’s nothing but him—those rich, chocolate eyes that hold flecks of gold in this light, those full lips that I now know are as soft as they look, the way he’s looking at me like I’m something precious, something worth memorizing.
