“You’re the man,” Aiden says, taking the crate from Nathan and setting it on the counter. “How many are in here?”
“Twelve,” Nathan answers. “I’ll grab more from the garage. Need anything?”
“No. May’s letting me use her oven, so I’m starting the bagels once I get these jars packed.”
Nathan nods and disappears back toward the garage.
Aiden turns to me. “Have you had coffee yet?”
“I haven’t,” I admit. “But you’re doing so much — I can take care of that.”
“That pot just brewed.” He points toward the coffee maker. “Let me get you a mug.”
He reaches up to a high cupboard just as Nathan comes back in carrying another crate filled with bowls covered with shower caps.
“I’m taking the rest of the Vampire Slayer,” Nathan says. “I think you only have blueberry and red velvet left. I’ll be back later.”
He heads out the front door.
I stare after him. “Vampire Slayer?”
Aiden laughs. “Nathan named it. That’s actually the loaf you’re about to eat. I make it with garlic cheddar. It’s really good.”
“Have you named any of your other breads?”
He shakes his head while filling a mug with coffee. “Not really. I usually just write the flavor on the bag.”
He hands me the coffee, then starts slicing a loaf.
Steam curls from the bread as he places a thick slice on a plate, with little pockets of white cheese running through it. He halves an avocado, slices it neatly, and spoons it onto the toast before finishing it with a sprinkle of Celtic salt.
He sets the plate in front of me.
I don’t even know what to say.
I sit on the counter that overlooks the kitchen, sipping coffee and watching him work.
He pulls a large ceramic pot from a cabinet and lays parchment paper on the counter. From the fridge, he takes a bowl, removes its shower cap, flips it over, and a perfectly round ball of dough drops onto the parchment.
He grabs a small, sharp tool and scores the top with one long line, then makes smaller cuts to form a simple pattern.
It feels almost… artistic.
He lowers the bread into the pot and places the lid on top. The oven timer goes off behind him. He slips on an oven mitt, opens the oven, removes the lid from another pot already inside, closes it again, and resets the timer.
Then he turns toward me.
I’m still watching him.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Just… perplexed by your work,” I admit.
He laughs under his breath, lifting the pot with the new loaf.
“I need to take this over to your oven.”
“I can do it,” I say, slipping off the counter.
