My palm covers hers, and my focus splinters. I’m not prepared for how warm and soft her skin is.
The action goes against every fucking rule I’ve ever made.
Our fingers graze the surface of the milk, and tiny bubbles break.
“There,” I say.
Barely.
I’m just embarrassing myself at this point.
“It hears you now.”
Her eyes follow our hand, and then flick up to my face. There’s something there.
Curiosity. Amusement. Desire.
And I’m not sure how I feel about that.
I clap my hands, needing the distraction. “Now. The eggs.”
I turn away from them and take my time crossing back to my station. There’s no rush here, but it’s not the baking I’m slowing for. It’s for whatever the hell that was.
The bowl waits where I left it. I rest my hands on the counter and let the silence settle.
“Room temperature,” I say at last. Quieter now. “They need to feel wanted. Cold shocks the dough.”
Only then do I reach for the egg.
It fits my palm perfectly, smooth and warm. I roll it once between my fingers, feeling the thin shell.
I tap it on the rim of the bowl.
Not hard, but just enough.
The shell parts cleanly when I pull it open, and the yolk slips free. It sinks into the milk.
“Easy,” I murmur, more to the bowl than the room. “No rushing.”
I crack the next one just as gently. It slides in beside the first.
I don’t look up.
I don’t need to.
I can feel the attention pressing in, waiting for permission.
I set the shells aside, wipe my fingers together, then finally lift my gaze.
“Now.” I pick up the whisk and lower it into the bowl. “Let’s whisk.”
They obey my every instruction.
Sugar, melted butter, and salt are added to the yeast mixture after the eggs. Every step is executed together.
We gradually add flour, one cup at a time, and mix until the soft dough forms.
I plunge my fingers in. Perfection. Then I glance up and notice Shay using a spoon. That’s not right. But neither is her stiff and disconnected posture.
