Frustration coils tight under my skin.
Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I pace the length of the room. Back and forth. Trying to burn off energy that has nowhere to go.
I thought I could ignore Taylor. I was wrong.
That firecracker’s taken a wrecking ball to the control I usually have.
“Man, if you keep this up, neither one of us is going to get any sleep,” Brandon mumbles from beneath the covers of his bed. “Don’t be a dick.”
“Sorry,” I grumble, taking the hint. I grab my sweatshirt and head out to pace literally anywhere else.
There isn’t much to distract me on the main floor, so I take the stairs down to the basement where the production company has recreated an entire commercial kitchen for us to practice in if we so choose.
Maybe I can whip something up that releases some goddamn endorphins and finally relax a little.
I was under the impression no one else was down here, but I stand corrected.
Light spills through the open doorway, catching on stainless steel and the ceramic tile floor.
In the middle of the room, standing with her back to me, is a familiar silhouette, shoulders hunched in concentration. Whether I want to or not, I’d know those curves anywhere.
Of course, it’s her—the reason for all this pent-up tension coiled inside me.
Her hands move across the dough, and I can barely think past the sight of her.
“Hey,” I say gently, closing the distance between us slowly so I don’t startle her.
Taylor glances my way, and all I can focus on is the exhaustion in the swirling gold and green of her eyes.
“Hey.”
“You aren’t going home tonight?”
The question feels stupid as it slips out, but she should be on the road already if she wants enough sleep to tackle work in the morning.
She shakes her head once, her eyes still trained on the dough in her hands.
“Not tonight. There was some kind of building emergency that started Friday afternoon, and they’re finishing up repair tomorrow, so I have until Tuesday to figure out how to make decent bread. No pressure, right?”
She laughs, though it’s a little strained.
I shouldn’t notice the difference in her laughs, but I do.
Without realizing it, I’ve moved closer to her. I can feel the warmth of her skin radiating through the thin fabric of her T-shirt when I lean forward to look at the dough she is working with.
“What’s going wrong? Maybe I can help.”
“I just don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I’ve never baked actual bread. Just quick breads like banana bread. No matter what I do, I can’t seem to get this to pass the windowpane test. Is that even a reliable measure?”
Her admission surprises me. Never done actual bread?
How is that possible? All bakers learn how to make bread.
Actually… No—notall bakers learn that. Trained bakers would be forced to learn, but home bakers? They might never have tackled it on their own.
I clear my throat. “Yeah, the windowpane test is reliable. The whole point of working the dough is to build up the gluten strands. Show me what you’ve got so far, and I’ll read it.”
“Read it?”
