Wilma yanks the towel. “I don’t like the iPad.”
Faye yanks it back. “Let go.”
“Fine.” Wilma releases it. “Button-down or T-shirt?”
I clear my throat, chuckle, and lean closer to the two ladies. “My lessons are done without a shirt.”
Wilma’s mouth falls open, eyebrows shoot up, and her body stiffens. Her gaze darts from me to Faye and back again beforeshe swallows hard. And her lips part like she’s going to say something, then she closes them again.
Faye’s grin spreads appreciatively.
She leans in, letting Wilma stew, and hooks her arm through hers. “Don’t let us stop you.”
She hands me the tea towel and pulls her sister aside toward the baking station they’ve commandeered for themselves.
That was an active intro to my class. I catch a few amused soft giggles.
I tie the apron low on my hips and roll my shoulders. My muscles flex under the movement, drawing a round of low, appreciative sounds from my crew of bakers.
And here we go.
My hat’s pulled low, shadowing my eyes, but I feel their gazes trace every inch of me. Not that it’s my favorite part—never has been. I’m here to bake, to teach, to show them how it’s done. But u know they signed up for more than just my recipes. I know because this isn’t the first lesson with this group. These are my diehard fans.
Breathe.
“Alright, ladies,” I drawl. “Today, we’re bakin’ something real sweet.”
I don’t look at them yet.
I let ‘em wait.
I let ‘em want.
It’s not just me, but what this cooking lesson is going to become.
That’s good.
Let them look.
Looking isn’t the same as taking.
Keep it light. Keep it playful. Let them laugh.
Laughter softens the edge.
“First rule,” I say, slow and low. “Nothing gets rushed in this kitchen.”
Little old Nettie squints over her glasses. “Those arms of yours are they extra credit, or do we get to touch?”
“Ma!” Jaclyn’s head snaps up.
“He’s a hands-on teacher,” Nettie hisses at her daughter, then winks at me. “Aren’t you a hands-on teacher?”
“Well, Nettie, I keep my hands busy with flour here. But Idogive hugs after class. Strictly post-class, of course.”
“Are you going to oil up before then?” Nettie waggles her white eyebrows.
Feisty little thing.
