“Oil up before then? Mother!” Jaclyn mimics her mother’s flamboyant gestures, her leopard-print sleeve swishing with the motion.
Nessie‘s eyes twinkle. “Darling, I’ve been through kitchens like this long enough to know when a man’s arms could use a little polish.”
The twins whisper in the corner and exchange wide-eyed glances. The rest of the ladies giggle.
I shake my head, laughing lightly. “Alright, hands off the arms and back to the dough. First rule of this kitchen: nothing gets rushed.”
“I am very disciplined—mostly,” Nettie whispers.
I don’t look at any of them for long, and I’ve mastered shifting the attention. I’ve done enough of these live baking classes that I’ve honed the boundaries to keep both myself and the class comfortable and safe.
“Second rule.” I peel the wrapper from a stick of butter and run my fingertip along the surface. “These ingredients do their best work when you trust them.”
I talk about the way the butter melts, letting them imagine the ingredients instead of me.
Flirting isn’t about touching. It’s about suggestion. The balance is about making them feel included without being claimed.
I’m not the fantasy. I’m the guide. And the food does the rest.
“Let’s begin.”
I grab the whisk, rolling it between my palms. The metal’s cool, but it won’t stay that way for long.
Neither will I.
“First thing,” my low tone glides across the Victorian kitchen. “We wake the yeast.”
The copper bowls are already laid out at the stations. Twelve of them polished to a dull glow.
And a dozen women abandon their classes of wine to roll up their sleeves. Their eyes follow my hands, my actions, my every tiny move.
“You don’t rush yeast,” I continue. “You invite it.”
I pour warm milk into my bowl, slow and steady. The steam kisses my chest.
I’ve learned not to rush this part either. If I move too fast, people end up watching the wrong thing. If I move like the ingredients matter, they follow that instead.
“Warm, not hot.” I glance up. “Think bathwater. Comfortable. Something you’d sink into.”
A few of them smile.
One laughs softly.
I sprinkle yeast over the surface of the liquid and don’t touch it. “Let it float and let it decide when it’s ready.”
The room hums with quiet movement as they follow my instructions.
Milk poured.
Yeast scattered.
Twelve bowls mirroring mine.
I step back and wipe my hands on a towel, draping it over my shoulder. The marble counter is cold beneath my palms. Slowly, I bend over the bowl.
“If you lean in”—I lower my voice to pull them with me—“you’ll see it start to foam.”
I notice their small movements as they lean with me.
