Then he’s rolling dough, pressing it flat with the heels of his palms, and the muscles in his forearms shift and tighten with every push. He shapes two large rounds, sets them side by side on the tray, and pauses. Looks at the camera. One eyebrow lifts as if he’s staring right into my soul.
Then brings his palm down on the dough. A firm, open-handed slap that echoes off the kitchen tiles.
My breath hitches, a sharp, stuttered inhale through my teeth that I’d deny under oath.
He slaps the other one. Slower. More deliberate. His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek, and his eyes stay locked on the lens. I grip my phone so hard the case creaks.
The buns go into the oven. Brody sets a timer, leans back against the counter, arms braced wide, and Damien hops from the stool to the counter in one fluid leap, walks directly through the flour pile Brody left behind, and stamps a trail of perfect white paw prints across the dark granite. Brody groans. Damien sits in the flour, looks at the camera, and trills. Five million followers exist because of moments exactly like this.
Brody reaches for a cloth to wipe the counter, and Damien bats it out of his hand. It falls. Brody picks it up. Damien bats it again. Brody holds it above his head. Damien stretches onto his hind legs and swipes for it with both paws, his red vest riding up, and Brody breaks, scooping him off the counter and cradling him against his bare chest while Damien immediately starts kneading his shoulder with both front paws, claws dimpling skin. Brody winces, laughs, and buries his face in Damien’s fur. For a few seconds, the performance drops away entirely. Just a man holding his ridiculous, flour-footed cat in a warm kitchen while the timer ticks. My chest aches, as I wasn’t prepared to feel anything.
Brody sets Damien on the seat. Damien promptly knocks the small wooden salt cellar off the edge. It clatters to the floor, and Brody doesn’t even flinch.
The timer dings. Brody pulls the buns from the oven, golden, risen, perfect. He coats them in a salted caramel glaze, drizzling it slowly from a spoon held high, amber threads stretching and catching the light as they fall. Some of it lands on his knuckles. He lifts his hand to his mouth and licks it off, eyes on the camera, unhurried.
Part of me is giddy to realize he’s made my sweet buns recipe, but as larger buns instead of smaller ones.
Damien inches toward the tray. One paw extends. Brody gently redirects him with a finger to the forehead and slides a small plate of cat treats across the counter instead. Damien sniffs the treats, eats one, and then bats the plate off the edge of the counter. It clatters to the floor. Brody stares at the mess, at the cat. Damien stares back with zero remorse.
He picks up one bun with two hands. Holds it to the camera. Takes a bite. The caramel stretches between his lips and the bread, and he closes his eyes and groans, low and rough. My entire body flushes from collarbone to feet.
The video cuts to a title card. Clean white text on black.
Recipe from the incredibly talented (and delicious) Claire Darling.
The book isSalt and Comfort. Go buy it.
I stare at my phone as the screen goes dark. My own reflection stares back at me, a woman in a crop top with pink cheeks, parted lips, and an expression that would be deeply humiliating if captured on camera.
I turn my head toward his house, and he’s standing at the window.
Not hiding but peeking through blinds. Standing there in full view, palm pressed flat against the glass, chin tilted, watching me with a slow, knowing smile. The exact mirror of what I did, the same pose he caught me in, and he’s throwing it back at me, wanting me to know it.
I burst out laughing, and I can’t help it. It breaks out of me, and he’s grinning, satisfied, then he pulls away.
I collect my laptop, my grapes, my phone, and my dignity—what’s left of it—and walk inside with measured, casual, completely-not-affected steps. The back door closes behind me. I press my shoulders against it and stand there in my kitchenwith my pulse roaring and my cheeks burning and a smile I can’t remove from my face. Did that just happen? He was flirting. I’m certain of it. And that slap… was it meant for me? I’m giddy all over, and my phone rings.
Katie. Thank God.
“Claire.” Her voice is vibrating at a frequency that suggests caffeine, excitement, or both. “Tell me you’ve seen it.”
I play dumb, knowing exactly what she’s talking about. “Seen what?”
“Don’t you dare play coy with me. Brody from ManBaker just uploaded a video of himself making your sweet buns, and it’s everywhere, Claire. He tagged you, credited the book, and the comment section is losing its collective mind. Your book just jumped eighteen spots on the cooking chart. My phone hasn’t stopped buzzing. The publisher emailed. They haven’t emailed in two months, and now they’re emailing because a shirtless man slapped some dough on camera and told millions of people to buy your cookbook. Do you know how hard it is to get such an endorsement? You clearly made a huge impression at the book signing.”
I slide down the door until I’m sitting on the kitchen floor, back against the wood, knees up, phone pressed to my ear. “Katie.”
“This is huge. I told you he was interested. The man bought your book, stared at you for ten minutes, and now he’s promoting you. You need to reach out to him, build on this. This is the kind of exposure we’ve been?—”
“Katie.”
“What?”
“He’s moved in next door to me. Brody’s my new neighbor.”
Silence. “I’m sorry. Say that again.”
“The shirtless baker with the famous cat. He bought the empty house next door to me, and he’s been living there for two weeks.”
