His part of it took less than three seconds and left me standing in the open doorway, warring with my errant heartbeat.
“What’s on the menu?” I asked, following in his wake, determined to get my thoughts back in line and away from the brush of his warm lips against my skin. Cheek kisses were definitely a friend thing. Strangers practically did that.
“We’re starting with a classic.” He set a bag of flour on the counter along with eggs, butter, powdered sugar, and a foil packet of yeast. “The beignet. Brought to New Orleans by the Acadians in the eighteenth century. It was declared the official state donut in 1986.”He waggled his eyebrows at me.
“That can’t be a thing.”
“I assure you it is.”
He pressed his palm to his chest, and I got momentarily sidetracked by the way his hand looked against the faded cotton of his T-shirt. I bit my lip again, imagining what it would feel like to slide my hands under the soft fabric. To touch his warm, bare skin. Which wouldn’t do. We were cooking, not sexing. I glanced up and caught Ford staring at my mouth.
“Fine. You were saying.” I made ago onmotion with my hand, determined to get back on track. His lips curved in a grin I was pretty sure meant he was on to me.
“A stellar start to any brunch,” continued Ford. “The perfect snack, and a beloved hangover food of both tourist and locals alike.”
He sounded like a documentary narrator—kind of a Creole version of David Attenborough but sexier—and I bit my lip to keep from laughing at the image. There might have been the barest flash of heat in his eyes as his gaze drifted to my lips, but it was gone too soon for me to be sure.
“I know what beignets are. I didn’t realize the cooking came with a history lesson.”
“All part of the service, cher.” He set a jug of vegetable oil on the counter next to the other ingredients and folded the empty grocery bag. “I assume you have a stand mixer?”
“You assume I know what that is.” I knelt in front of the cabinet by the stove, opened the door and tugged on the heavy mixer. “Just kidding.”
I turned to look up at him and got an unobstructed view of long denim-clad legs a breath away from me. For a moment, I wasn’t someone getting a cooking lesson; I was a woman on her knees in front of a man I’d had my lips on. One I planned to take in my mouth again in forty-eight hours or so.
Heat flashed deep in my core, and I felt my face flush. If the way Ford’s breath hitched in his chest was any indication, we shared the same thought.
“Let me get that,” he said, squatting down beside me and breaking the spell.
He grabbed the mixer and lifted it like it weighed nothing, setting it on the counter beside the ingredients.
“Grab the measuring cups and a small bowl.” He let the water in the sink run until it was hot and then filled a mug. “First we’ve got to bloom the yeast. It’s dry now. We’ve gotto wake it up.” He measured out a cup of water into the bowl and held it out toward me. “Touch it.”
I arched a brow at him, and he hit me with a grin that made it clear the double entendre was intentional.
“It should be warm to the touch but not too hot or it will kill the yeast.” He waited while I dipped the tip of my finger into the warm water. “See?”
I nodded. “This cooking thing is tough.”
“Smart ass. Open the yeast and sprinkle it in the bowl.”
I did as he said, tearing the foil packet open and sprinkling the granules on the water. They smelled like good sourdough bread and floated on the surface for a second before dissolving into a putty-colored paste. Ford sprinkled a pinch of something on top of the floating yeast.
“Sugar,” he said. “Just a bit to feed them and get them started. Salt will kill them.”
“You keep talking like it’s alive.” I had a basic understanding of yeast, but Ford made them sound more like an animal than a dough ingredient.
“That’s because it is. An organism, not an animal. But it’s all part of the magic.”
He fitted what looked like a pirate hook but in hindsight was probably a dough hook to the mixer and started measuring flour and eggs and butter into the bowl.
“The butter’s got to be soft, see?” He pressed a fingertip gently into the pale-yellow surface of the butter and then stuck his finger in his mouth, reminding me of all the other things he’d done with his mouth.
The man made cooking sexy. I was so fucked.
“How do we tell when this is ready?” I held out the bowl and its now frothy contents.
“See all the bubbles? It means the yeast is active and going to work. It’s ready now.” He dumped the yeast mixture in with the rest of the ingredients and started the mixer on low, gradually increasing the speed as the dough came together.
