Page 28 of Owning Emma

“I wouldn’t say you looked like a poodle, Emma. They are way too refined for comparison.”

My mouth gaped open at his joke and he just smirked, used his finger to push my mouth closed, and strolled away like he hadn’t just dealt me the ultimate insult. I met him in the truck where he already had the heater on, warming the cab so that when I got in, I wouldn’t have to freeze half the drive. He was a jerk, but a considerate jerk.

When we got to the shop, he chivalrously opened my door, then unlocked the building so he could be the first inside. He turned on the light and after he was satisfied that there was no creep hiding behind the industrial mixer, he motioned me to come in.

“What exactly are you looking for?” I called to him from a room away.

He stopped his assessment of the bakery lobby, “I don’t know, something? It’s never a bad thing to be cautious.”

I snorted, “You sound like him.”

“Who?” His eyebrows drew together in annoyance.

“Shaw.”

“There are worse people in this world to sound like than Shaw. We’re only trying to keep you as safe as possible.”

He strolled back into the kitchen and put on an apron. This big masculine guy with tattoos crawling up his arms that disappeared under his shirt sleeve, picked a pink apron and wore it like he owned it. I bit my lower lip to keep from laughing, and his eyes zeroed in on me. “What?”

“Pink? You put on a pink apron when there is a white one right next to it.” He looked down at his apron, picking a piece of lint off it.

“I thought we were doing the whole matching thing.” He gestured to the apron I had in my hand.

“Ah. No, we weren’t. But you know what, leave it.” I put my head through the loop then took the long straps to tie it around my back. “So the simplest things to do to help would probably be doing the heavy lifting. I’ll need those bags of flour and sugar. I’ll have you roll out dough as well. Maybe some dishes.”

“We’ll see about the dishes.” He grumbled as he strolled toward the pantry that housed the big bags of flour, sugar, and all the other ingredients we go through each day as bakers.

We worked in silence for a while, me giving him directions and him doing whatever I told him without argument, all while wearing a pink apron. I didn’t want to watch him, especially as time went by, and the sun started to peak over the horizon, but I also couldn’t tear my eyes away. Not while his muscles flexed as he rolled out dough, or when his massive man paws held the delicate cookie cutter and triumphantly cut out perfect shapes.

I was decorating cupcakes, my hand poised over an unfrosted cupcake, the bag filled with purple frosting in my grip, when I looked up, and caught him staring. “What?”

He tilted his head to the side. “It’s like an art, right? You’re like an artist?”

I never really thought of it that way. Not when I grew up decorating cupcakes with piping bags, sprinkling nonpareils with precision, and applying the finishing touch that caught the customer’s eyes. “It’s all muscle memory, I guess. Want to try?”

He looked unsure but placed the hot pan he had in his hand onto the countertop and removed his oven mitt. “Is it hard?”

“You can take apart a whole car if you choose to, but you’re afraid of a little frosting?” I teased, holding out the bag for him.

He slowly walked toward me, acting like I was trying to hand a ball of fire. “What if I mess it up?”

“I’ll scrape it off.”

“You can do that?” He picked up a cupcake and twirled it, examining it like he was trying to figure out how to perfect the technique on the very first attempt.

I took the cupcake from his hand, grabbed a knife and put off the perfect swirl of frosting, then plopped it into a bowl. I sat the cupcake down in front of me and again, layered on another perfect layer of frosting. “See. Not a single soul can tell the difference.”

He pulled an unfrosted cupcake to sit in front of him before glancing outside. “You better show me what to do fast, it’s almost opening.”

“Relax, we still have forty minutes.” I offered him the frosting bag and he took it.

“You have a lot to get done in forty minutes.”

“It will get done. Last minute, but it always works out.” I took a step closer and grabbed another piping bag full of blue frosting. “You hold the bag like this, apply a light pressure as you swirl your wrist.”

He mirrored my stance as he held the piping bag. “It wouldn’t be so last minute if you didn’t insist on taking longer than I offered this morning.”

I straightened my back. “You gave me an extra five minutes, and for the record, it still wasn’t enough.”

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