I show him how to whisk together the flour, sugar, and salt. He does that part easily enough, but then I cube the cold butter and dump it into the bowl.
“This is the important part,” I tell him. “You want the butter to stay cold. That’s what gives you the flaky layers. If it melts into the flour too fast, you lose the texture.”
Wren stares at the bowl like it’s a puzzle. “So if I heat up the butter, I ruin the tart.”
“Exactly.”
He puts a hand over his heart. “You think I can heat up your butter?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. He grins like he’s won, then reaches for the pastry cutter. “Tell me what to do.”
I move beside him and guide his hands on the handle. “Cut the butter into the flour until it looks crumbly. We’re looking for pea sized pieces.”
Wren presses too hard immediately, flour puffing up over the counter. He coughs as a cloud hits him square in the face.
I laugh. I can’t help it. It bursts out of me, louder than I expected.
He narrows his eyes, then deliberately swipes his fingers into the flour and streaks a line across my forehead. I wipe at it and cock a brow.
Wren lifts his chin. “That’s what you get.”
I grab the bag and dust a little over his shoulder. He pats both hands in flour and presses them to my cheeks.
The flour fight lasts all of ten seconds before I catch both his wrists and pin them gently to the edge of the counter. His eyes go wide. The room goes still.
“Behave,” I say.
Wren’s voice comes out soft. “You make that very difficult.”
I should let him go. Instead I hold on for one second too long, because I like the feel of his pulse jumping under my fingers.
Then I clear my throat and step back. “Finish cutting the butter.”
Wren smirks. “Yes, sir.”
He knows exactly what he’s doing.
He’s terrible at the pastry cutter. He either attacks the dough like it insulted his mother or pauses every few seconds to ask if it looks right. Eventually, I crowd in behind him and wrap my arms around him to show him the motion.
My chest presses to his back. His wings shiver where they’re tucked close, brushing my forearms through the slits in his shirt.
“Gentler,” I murmur near his ear. “Like this.”
Wren goes absolutely still.
I probably should too, but his body is warm against mine and he smells like that winter honey scent that drives me half feral. I guide his hands through the movement, cutting butter into flour in slow, steady passes.
“See?” I say. “You don’t have to be aggressive with it.”
He nods, breathless and I don’t know if it’s our closeness or something else.
I nudge his shoulder. “Keep going.”
When the butter is right, I have him drizzle in ice water a spoonful at a time. He pokes the dough like it’ll attack him.
“How do you know when it’s enough?”
I take a handful and squeeze gently. “When it holds together like this.”
