I lift my shoulders. “It’s a calming place. Is this when you tell me that bread-making is your calming zone?”
He has a deep chuckle. “Hell no. I can cook and grill, but baking is not my forte.”
The waiter places a tray in front of us. We shuffle items around on the table to make space. With quick instructions, we get busy on mixing the ingredients.
My arm gives out mid-flour-mixing, and I collapse back into my seat. “Here. We need your muscle to finish this.”
Keats takes over. “Your hero is here to assist.”
The next hour we continuously laugh and joke around. It’s constant switching what we produce with the staff who provide a new dough to keep the steps flowing.
We are at our last step where we are shaping the dough to put into a Dutch oven dish with all eyes on us due to our hysterics. While the bread is baking at a solid 450 degrees, we enjoy nibbles and drinks.
“I won’t need to go to yoga for days. What a workout that was,” I comment.
“But that smell from the kitchen is worth it. Do you prefer butter or olive oil on your bread?” he wonders.
“Hmm. Probably olive oil and mix that with a little balsamic and herbs. I’m sure we could steal a few from Mrs. Tiller’s garden. The dog across the street eats her plants anyhow.”
Keats brings his arm around me to rest on the back of my chair, and I can’t help scooting a little closer to him. “Aren’t you a little rebel,” he responds.
Watching the people around us, it appears everyone seems to be on a date except the trio of girlfriends in the cornerchatting about single life. Another reminder that I’m here with someone, and I like that a lot.
I nearly faint when the loaf of bread is brought to us. “Wait,” I say and dive into my bag for my phone. “This deserves a photo.”
Keats grins. “Okay, that makes sense. I need to send this to my sister, and then she will send a bunch of questions in return.”
I elbow him in jest. “But you love it.” I get a few shots, and then I hand the bread knife to Keats. “You may do the honors.”
He’s so laidback tonight, with ease remaining on his face the whole night. The bread’s crust makes a crackly noise, and I nudge his arm with excitement.
“Ooh, this is nice and soft inside. Probably warm, too.” He quickly winks at me, and I playfully roll my eyes.
Keats offers me a piece, and the first bite is nearly orgasmic, and I murmur a sound.
“I’ve heard that noise before,” he teases.
“Well, aren’t you funny.” I rip off another piece while he brings his slice to his lips, I patiently wait for his reaction, and I cock an eyebrow. “I’ve seen that face before.”
Not once has it crossed my mind to argue or throw a jab that is out of line, even for flirtation.
When our wine-and-loafs night wraps up, we head back to his car, but he doesn’t start his engine. Instead, a promising quiet surrounds us, and the streetlights trace our faces. Our fingers interlace in the middle between our seats. This is a softer side between us, maybe a shock to my body, too. For the last few months, I would never have imagined this.
“I had a good time.” His voice is tender, and it causes my body to grow sensitive in all the right places.
“Me too,” I reply. Biting my bottom lip, I decide a simpletwo-word answer isn’t enough. “Actually, I forgot what it’s like to go on a date.”
At record speed he jumps in. “I hear ya.”
Our hands float around one another. I scoff a laugh. “Turns out that I might be kind of happy that my dry spell is broken with you.”
Keats leans his head to the side, and our eyes meet with a glow around us. “Ditto,” he agrees.
“That’s good, because the whole next-door-neighbor aspect kind of complicates things, and as much as it’s been fun to plan each other’s murders, it would be a hell of a lot more uncomfortable if tomorrow we had to see one another after a horrible date.” I point out the potential predicament of our situation
“Good thing this wasn’t horrible then.”
I smile because he is right.
