“Your dough will tell you what it needs. You just have to know how to analyze what you’re seeing and feeling. May I?”
I reach out and take the dough into my hands. Her shoulders relax a little as she watches me stretch it out. It immediately tears.
“Okay, see that? It tore right away, which means there isn’t enough gluten built up. It’s also not perfectly smooth. If it had stretched but not thin enough to see through, then it might just have been overworked and tight. In that case, you’d let it relax for a little and try again.”
She leans in, watching the dough in my hands.
“So what you’re saying is I need to rough it up a little more?” she asks, rewarding me with a genuine smile.
Fuck—I swallow hard, the way she says “rough it up” doing something I don’t have the patience to unpack right now. I nod quickly.
She plops the dough on the counter and starts kneading. I immediately see the problem. She’s being too gentle.
She’ll be here all night if she keeps handling it like that.
“Right.” I interrupt her with a hand on her wrist. Her skin is so soft and smooth beneath my palm. “That’s the issue right there. You need to work it harder than that. Let me show you.”
I smack the dough against the workstation, firm and decisive. Rolling my sleeves up to my elbows, I press the heel of my hand into the dough, pushing it away before pulling it back toward me. I repeat the motion a couple of times, letting muscle memory take over.
My attention shifts to Taylor, watching her reaction instead.
First, her focus is on my hands. Then her gaze drifts up my arms, lingering for a moment before settling on my face. Her cheeks are flushed, that soft pink I’ve come to notice.
Fuck, she’s beautiful.
“Your turn,” I direct, my voice tighter than I intend.
She does her best to mimic my movements, but it’s still too gentle.
“That’s still too soft, Taylor. Here… can I help you?”
She nods once, and that’s all the permission I need to move behind her. I cage her in, one arm on either side of her, my chest just behind her back.
Her breath catches.
I close my eyes for a split second, holding onto the sound like it’s a gift meant for someone else. Someone who deserves it.
My fingers trail a slow path down her arms. My hands dwarf hers as I guide her movements, hand-over-hand, showing her the pressure she needs.
But it’s hard to focus on the task.
It’s the feel of her instead—soft and warm, pressed against me—that keeps pulling my attention away.
Unable to resist, I lean in, my face brushing into her hair, and inhale her scent.
Citrus blossom.
Bright. Clean. So perfectly Taylor.
I breathe in again before I realize I’m doing it.
“Alex…” Her voice is a breathy whisper. She leans back against me, and I have to swallow hard against the sound rising in my throat.
Move.
Move now, before you do something you regret.
I step back, clearing my throat.
