I hum as butter goes down onto the rectangle first, to keep the inside nice and moist. I use salted butter to cut through all of the sugar just a smidge, and then the compote gets smoothed on next. The creamy, glistening fruit I boiled down with sugar spreads like peanut butter on warm toast, and I smile to myself.
It’s going to be another good batch.
I’m sliding those rolls into the secondary oven before a familiar voice wafts through the bakery.
“Morning, ladies!”
My lips twitch before I can stop them.
Tansy doesn’t miss a beat. “She’s in the back, Knox. Don’t you dare distract her.”
“I would never,” he says, wounded and amused all at once.
“You absolutely would, and you know it,” Tansy shoots back. “Go lean against a wall and look pretty unless you’re placing your regular order.”
I bite back a laugh as I start a timer on the oven for those rolls. Even though I’m in the back room, I can picture him. His massive shoulders and that smug grin of his that gets more confident every day I spend in his presence.
He’s probably already craning his neck to see if he can get a glimpse of me working back here.
“I just came to say hello!” he calls out.
“Hello!” I call from the back room.
One of the earlier trays of cherry-rhubarb rolls is done. I rip off the plastic gloves and slip my hands into oven mitts. Out come the rolls, ready for a nice coating of compote on the top.
They look beautiful, too. Tight spirals with flecks of pink peeking through the dough. A syrupy middle, the compote mingling deliciously with the crispy outside.
“Five minutes on those cherry-rhubarbs!” I call out.
Tansy peeks her head in. “Get out here and say hi to this man before he smiles so big it falls off his face.” Her gaze flicks down to the pan. “Also, fantastic. We’ve got people waiting out here for them.”
I thumbed over my shoulder. “Put another pan in for you, just in case.”
Tansy’s eyes widen. “Oh, hell yeah. You’re hired.”
I bark with laughter. “And here I thought you already did that.”
“We got two pans today, guys! Line up and place your orders,” Tansy calls out across the bakery floor.
I hear the sound of footsteps kick up as I check on the two other timers. Those regular cinnamon rolls have about ten more minutes, so I shuffle to the sink.
I wash my hands and get another set of plastic gloves over my fingers, making sure to follow all of Tansy’s protocol to the letter. For all I know, I could swing this into a part-time job alongside my freelancing.
As I’m tossing everything into the mixer for the cream cheese icing, something trickles up my spine. Sweat beads along my brow, and for a moment, everything feels… off.
My preheat’s been flirting at the edges for days now. It always does that when I’m about a week out from this nonsense. My sense of smell is heightened in ways that have set off alarm bells for the last forty-eight hours.
I know I’m close to my heat, but it can’t be today.
Not with Tansy’s trust sitting in these pans.
“Just one more hour,” I whisper to myself.
I hope my body cooperates.
After turning on the mixer, I attach a plastic covering so nothing splatters out. I rip the plastic gloves off, barely getting them into the trash can before I’m hunched over the sink.
I splash cold water into my face, washing away the sweat threatening to slide down my skin. My own hands feel like sandpaper whenever I touch myself.
