Noelle stands across from me, her sleeves rolled up and a dusting of flour on her cheek that she’s blissfully unaware of. She’s trying to conceal a smile as she watches my pathetic efforts.
‘You’re doing great,’ Noelle says. It’s a blatant lie, but she says it with an encouraging grin. ‘Don’t let the dough get the better of you. Just imagine you’re negotiating a tough deal or something like that. That dough has nothing on you.’
‘Negotiations I can handle,’ I mutter, giving the pastry another go. ‘This, on the other hand, is pure anarchy.’
I glance over at the example she showed me earlier. It’s neat and tidy, the very definition of culinary perfection. Mine, on the other hand, is a misshapen blob. And that’s being generous. White pockets of flour stick to the dough where it should be a smooth, yellowy colour like hers. I’m not sure where I went wrong because I’m sure I followed her example perfectly, and she made it look so easy.
‘Maybe if you didn’t scowl at it so much, it would be more pliable,’ Noelle says, her braids swishing as she leans in toinspect my handiwork. ‘Didn’t you know that food absorbs the energy of the person making it?’
‘Ha, ha,’ I deadpan. ‘Then this tart is doomed to be as bitter as I am.’ After a few more pathetic attempts, I finally getting the fold somewhat right, though it’s nowhere near as neat as Noelle’s.
Noelle’s smile dips slightly. ‘Bitter isn’t always bad. There’s just a time and a place for it.’
‘Is this where you tell me that a bitter strawberry tart is the height of culinary perfection?’
She gives me a weak smile. ‘Time and a place, remember?’
‘Such as…’
Noelle surveys me for a few long seconds. ‘It’s all about balance. Bitterness in particular, I mean.’ She leans in a little closer, hesitates for a moment, and then places her hand above mine. Warmth floods every single one of my senses as she threads her fingers through mine and then pushes downwards, forcing my hand to mimic the movement.
‘People don’t tend to like bitter foods,’ she says, guiding my hands through the motion of folding out the dough. ‘Kale, Brussels sprouts, any dark leafy green really. By themselves, they’re usually too bitter for most people to enjoy. Combine it with somethingsweet—’ She pauses for a moment, fingertips ghosting along my hands as she pulls away and gives me an encouraging nod to continue with the dough. ‘And it balances out the taste.’
‘That just proves my point,’ I continue, already missing the feel of her hand on mine. ‘Nobody wants something bitter. Not by itself anyway.’
Noelle shrugs, the corner of her mouth lifting into a small smirk. ‘What about dark chocolate?’
I scowl at her. ‘That’s one thing.’
‘Pretty much every citrus fruit out there is technically bitter. Peppermint, too. And people love that.’ Something lights up behind her eyes, and her smirk widens. ‘And I, for what it’s worth, love my coffeebitter.’ Her words are innocent enough, but there’s something in the way she says it –I love my coffeebitter – that sends a wave of unmistakable, unbridled arousal shooting through me. If this were anyone else – if we wereanywhereelse – I’d take that as an invitation to cross the space between us and press my lips against hers.
But this is Noelle. My personal chef.
And we’re in my home.
Trappedin my home, if we’re being technical about it.
Whatever I think I’m reading from her right now, I know that I’m wrong.
Noelle laughs suddenly, the sound filling the kitchen and a cavern in my chest I hadn’t realised was even there. ‘And seriously, you should try smiling more often.’ She looks up at me, her gaze softening slightly. ‘You’ve got a nice one, might as well show it off.’
My heart thuds an irregular pitter patter and I try todeflect with some humour. ‘Is this a standard part of your personal chef services? Life coaching?’
‘Consider it a bonus feature,’ she replies, winking at me before turning back to her own perfect pastry creation.
The evening wanes, and the sickly-sweet smell of baking strawberries begins to permeate the air. Noelle’s effortless skill with the rolling pin makes me painfully aware of my own clumsiness. I watch, slightly envious but mostly in awe as she lifts the pastry with such grace, it’s practically pirouetting into the tart tin.
‘Let me help you with that,’ she offers, catching sight of my third attempt at lining my tin, which looks more like a pastry massacre than anything else at this point.
I step aside and watch as she works the dough with well-practised ease, her skilled hands moving with the kind of confidence that comes from years of dedication.
‘See?’ she says, finishing up with a flourish. ‘You were pushing the dough too hard, and it’s not about force; it’s about finesse.’
‘Finesse,’ I echo, trying to etch the concept into my brain for next time.
‘Don’t worry, I wasn’t expecting you to get it on your first time. I just wanted you to try. Baking is hard, and you’re definitely not alone.’
‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’ I quip, but even I can’t deny there’s something endearing about thesituation. Her joy is infectious, and despite the irritation of being bested by some bloodydoughof all things, I find myself chuckling along with her.
