Page 71 of Never Let You Go

He nods. “Get started.”

I take a deep breath.

I wash my hands thoroughly up to my elbows. Then, I weigh the flour, salt, yeast, and water, add them to a large trough and start mixing all the ingredients directly with one hand. The mixture offers resistance, and I power through. When it’s halfway homogeneous, I stretch my right hand and massage my forearm. There are still clumps of flour and pools of water that won’t blend. The mixture is really heavy, requiring me to muscle through it.

Christopher cocks his head to the side, an amused grin brightening his eyes. He doesn’t smile often, but when he does, it melts my heart. I’m trying hard not to think about what happened, or didn’t happen, between us. But the feeling of his hands on my body, the caress of his breath on my face, are impossible to forget.

My right arm cramps. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Of course you can.” A lock of hair falls over his forehead as he lowers his head and shoots me a glance hot enough to melt my core. “I’ll help you,” he says in a deep and reassuring voice. He washes his hands and forearms, dons a baker’s cap, stands by me, and shows me how it’s done: big movements that span the length of the trough, then rapidly crisscross back, fingers open to break the clumps of flour.

I get the hang of it and emulate him. His body is close to mine, and his cedar scent mingles with the sweet, earthy notes of the bread dough being formed. Our fingers touch on occasion, whether or not we want it. The dough is sticky, and the trough starts shifting. Christopher removes his hand from the dough, wipes it, and holds the trough for me. The veins in his hand stand out, the muscles in his forearm tensing each time I move the dough.

“You’re good,” he says when I’ve reached the end of the first step, but his words get me all hot and bothered again.

I cover the trough with a clean dishcloth and set the timer to ten minutes. This first pause is to ensure all ingredients hydrate homogeneously. “I’m okay with the theory. It’s the practice I’m concerned about,” I tell Christopher while I wipe my hand in a clean kitchen towel, my back to him. Ten minutes can be a very long time when there are unsaid things hanging between two people alone together. I need to reduce the awkwardness between us. “This is physically hard. I’m not sure I’ll be ready for the exam this spring.”

“You won’t be asked to knead dough by hand,” he says.

“Kay,” I say. Then I turn to face him. “About the other night. I’m sorry.”

He frowns. “The other night? You gotta stop apologizing for shit. What night are you talking about now.”

“When I got drunk.”

“You already apologized. Not that you needed to. I didn’t fire you. You’re here. We’re good.”

“What I said.”

His eyes light up with interest. “You’re gonna have to be a little more specific.”

I take a deep breath. “What I said about wanting you to kiss me,” I breathe out.

“And.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. Thought I made myself clear.”

I blink several times.

“The thing is, you want something, you have to go after it,” he says, his tone low and gentle. “Seems to me you’re the kind of woman who knows what she wants, seeing as you decided to leave a comfortable office to come here and work in the middle of the night doing something you don’t think you have a taste for, just so can go back to that office job that means so much to you right now, but I can see myself fighting you on at a later time. Going by that, I’d say you know how to get what you want. Sometimes, it’s just as simple as asking for it. In this case, I made myself clear. I think.”

Wow. That was a long speech, for Christopher.

Yup. I’m clear. Very clear. But how do I even begin asking for what I want? I want your hands all over me, your mouth claiming mine. And anything else you’d want to give me.

The timer rings and I jump out of the hold his dark eyes have on me. “Dough needs tending, sweetheart,” he says.

Sweetheart.

The dough. Right. My hands unsteady, I flour the prep table and plop the heavy dough on it. It spreads lightly like a deflated ball.

He uses his boss voice now as he guides me through the process. Strong tone, clipped orders.

Still so hot.

“Sprinkle flour on it, then fold it in half…. Now, lift it to extend it slightly, set it on the table, fold it in half, turn it one quarter counterclockwise and fold it again…. No… not quite. No hesitation, Alexandra…. Try, again. Lift, fold, and turn. Lift, fold, and turn.” He shows me, his movements strong and quick, the veins on his forearms bulging again as he flexes his muscles, the dough perfectly obedient in his knowing hands.

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