Chapter 10
Declan
“Alright, pick your fruit and let’s get started!” Trudie, one of the owners of Battered Bliss Emporium, practically bounces with enthusiasm. It’s that, or she’s had too much coffee.
Been there many times, Trudie.
Battered Bliss is a kitchenware store that offers cutlery, cookware, and gourmet foods. They host cooking classes, too, in a dedicated area in the back corner. Six workstations create a U-shape around the demonstration area, each with a sink and butcher-block counter made from hard maple.
I run my palm over the surface, smooth, well-oiled, and the kind of finish that takes patience. Good choice. Its tight grain makes it durable for food prep.
I’ve never taken a class here, but my buddy Nash’s wife suggested it when I dropped off a custom oak slab at their home. The mix of textures and touches of vibrant color creates an easygoing atmosphere.
Bree reaches for the strawberries at the same time I do, and when our fingers brush, electricity shoots straight up my arm.Why this still surprises me, I’m not sure. Her eyes meet mine, warm and golden-brown.
“Great minds,” I manage with a wink, taking in her beautiful curves.
Today, she’s wearing a fuzzy pink sweater with a giant red heart in the center. She’s got a matching red headband holding back her silky hair.
Bree plucks a strawberry from the wicker basket and takes a bite, holding my gaze the entire time. Juice glistens on her full bottom lip, and I am so tempted to kiss it off her, but we’re not at a club.
Izzy tsks from the next station over. “I’m standing right here, you know.”
“We haven’t even done anything,” Bree protests.
“Tell that to the strawberry.” Izzy’s already washing her blackberries with impressive efficiency, the steel colander gleaming. For an old-money debutante, Bree’s younger sister is turning out to be surprisingly laid back. She’s got minimal makeup on and is wearing jeans and a gray sweatshirt with red hearts on the elbows.
I’m really liking the Winthrop women.
Trudie distributes paring knives, and I grab mine with confidence. How hard can it be to cut up some strawberries?
Turns out? Pretty damn hard.
I’m mangling them, juice running down my fingers as I hack away like I’m splitting firewood instead of prepare fruit for jam. Bree glances at my cutting board and bites her lip, clearly trying not to laugh.
“Need some help there, Wilder?”
“I’ve got it under control.”
“You’re murdering them.” She takes my hand, her fingers warm and soft against my calloused ones, and guides the knife at the correct angle. “Gentle. Like this.”
More carnage.
She grabs the knife from my hand. “Here. Watch.”
I don’t watch. Instead, I’m acutely aware of the way her chocolate hair falls forward and the little furrow between her brows as she concentrates.
“You’re a natural.” My words are soft, reverent, even though she could have chopped off my finger since I didn’t bother looking down at the knife.
“Years of helping our mom make preserves.” She releases my hand, and I immediately miss her touch. “She has a thing for canning. Cherry preserves are her signature holiday gift.”
“Your mom sounds great.”
“She is.” Bree and Izzy speak simultaneously. “Jinx!” They laugh at their synchronized timing, high-fiving each other in a dance they’ve clearly done a t thousand times.
After a bit, we fall into a rhythm. Bree cuts, and I measure sugar and lemon juice. My shoulder bumps hers now and then as I lean over to check her work. Maybe it’s on purpose.
“You’re supposed to cut them smaller,” I say, peering into her bowl.
