Natalia unlocks it quickly, the corner of her lips lifting slightly, and pushes it open. “Hey,” she says, her lips twitching with something of a smile. One day, I want to make her grin so wide it hurts both our cheeks. “You came.”
“You asked nicely,” I say.
“I bribed you with cupcakes; I would hardly call that asking nicely.”
I smile and she gives me another small one in return.
“Come in.”
She steps aside for me and once I’m inside, she locks the door behind us. I turn to find her with her hands behind her back, likely resting against her backside, which is covered by her usual, high-waisted black leggings, rocking on her heels.
“How are you today, Natalia?” I ask.
“I’m okay,” she breathes. “Better.”
“Really?”
She nods. “Really.” She jerks her chin toward the kitchen. “I have some stuff set up for us,” she says, nervously gnawing at the corner of her lip and still rocking on her heels. “Do you want to learn how to make some cupcakes?”
I nod, a full blown smile encompassing my face. “Yeah. Red velvet coconut?”
“Of course.” She smiles. “Follow me.”
She saunters over to her set-up—flour and sugar and everything else laid out for us. Or, rather, for my baking lesson. Cooking has always come easy for me; it’s my thing. It was something I grew up practicing with my mother, who had also been a chef in her day. It’s a natural talent, the way baking is for Natalia.
But me? Baking? A disaster.
“I might mess this up,” I warn her and strip off my coat, slinging it on a nearby chair. “I can’t bake.”
“It’s easier than you think, chef.”
I half smile. “Thank you for your encouragement,chef,” I say. “But everything I bake, I burn.”
“You bake more than you realize,” she says. “Baked chicken? Potatoes? Pizza? You make all of those things for your restaurant.”
“That’s different.”
Natalia rolls her eyes and grabs her purple apron, tying it around her waist. “It’s not.” She grabs a green one and holds it out for me to take. “You’ll need this,Chef.”
“Thank you, chef.” I tie the apron around my hips and follow her to the sink where she’s thoroughly washing her hands. “So, what comes first?”
She rips a paper towel from the dispenser and dries her hands, and I mirror her movements. Back at the table, shebegins, telling me to watch first, then do. She measures out the flour, sugar, eggs, and her favorite secret ingredients that make the cupcakeshers.
I commit it all to memory.
I can’t help how nervous I am. I impress her with my cooking, sure, but I’m worried I’ll fail miserably with my baking skills. She doesn’t tell me I’m a disgrace, though. Instead, she shows me again and again, letting me turn on the mixer, showing me how to fill the paper cups properly, with the right amount of batter.
Beside me, she’s smiling and patient and so soft I want to sit her down on this table and kiss her until my lips are branded on her skin. It’s beautiful to watch her in her element. It’s almost like she’s in a peaceful bubble no one can pop when she’s mixing and scooping batter and making her own frosting.Sheis at peace like this. Her eyes aren’t tortured and cloudy, and even in our silence there is a small charming smile on her lips.
Once the cupcakes are in the oven, we remove our oven mitts and aprons, hanging them in their designated spots before we begin to clean our work station.
“You look happy,” I comment, trying to find the best way to help her clean.
“I am,” she says. “This is what I love, even if sometimes I don’t.”
“It’s your?—”
“It’s my safe haven,” Natalia finishes and goes to wash her hands again now that our workstation is spotless.
