Page 58 of In a Pinch

“If you think that is a half inch, then I’m really excited for how big you’re gonna tell your friends my dick is.” It hits me that her best friend is my soon-to-be sister-in-law. “Actually, on second thought, let’s just keep that between us.”

Her laugh fills the room and she cocks her head. “What, you don’t want your sister-in-law thinking you have a tiny weenie?” She pulls up her fingers to the half inch again.

“That’s not what you said last night.”

A blush rises up her cheeks. “Anyways, roll it out and I’ll go melt some butter. Like, a quarter cup.” She quickly turns on her heels and hides her pink face.

“Do I need to turn on the oven?”

“Woah, Nelly, I am the teacher here. I already turned it on.”

I hear her shuffling behind me and the distinct beep of an oven turning on. A laugh slips out.

“Something funny?” She turns around, hands on hips once again. She’s sternly staring at me, making me hold back my laughter.

“Nothing at all. This is just really relaxing.”

Once again, she rolls her eyes at me, before walking over with the melted butter. Then, she grabs the brown sugar, regular sugar, and cinnamon.

“Okay, next, we are going to evenly coat the butter from edge to edge. No dry spots at all. I can melt more butter if we need it.”

I follow her instructions to a T, evenly coating the butter. Unfortunately, she was right, baking is surprisingly relaxing.

“Next up, we’re gonna sprinkle this brown sugar all over in a thin layer, then a little bit of white sugar, and then a boat load of cinnamon.” She watches over my shoulder as I follow the steps, making sure everything is evenly coated, and there are no dry spots.

“I think we’ve got enough sugar on here to give ourselves diabetes.”

“That’s when you know you did the perfect amount. When you’re done with that, give them a heavy dusting of cinnamon, and then we will move on to rolling them.” The amount of glee in her voices reminds me of a little kid on the way to the park. I lovethe pure joy that she radiates. Even when it’s mixed with a heavy dash of sass and rage. It makes the perfect mix.

“To roll these out, we're going to go short ways so we get a wider cinnamon roll. We will probably only get about nine, but they will be large and in charge, so no one will be sad. Plus, I don’t think neither you nor I can finish nine cinnamon rolls in a quick amount of time.”

She must’ve been hiding in the closet still when I slammed four cinnamon rolls by myself on Christmas morning, but I let her pretend that nine will last us. Or her, I should say.

She literally makes me measure out each cinnamon roll to be the same size. The dough she can wing, but with this, she says it has to be precise, so they all bake to the same size. She uses the measure app on her phone, and then makes me measure and mark each one. Damn, and I thought I was anal and hypercritical in the kitchen. I have nothing on her.

“Next, we let them rise. They should be ready to pop in the oven in about an hour.”

“I thought they didn’t have to rise.” This is precisely why I hate baking.

“They don’t have to do a pre-rise, but they still have to do a normal rise.”

This whole conversation makes me feel like we’re not paying our dessert and baking guys enough at Flambé. For food, it’s easy, because meats cook to a certain temp. You learn what flavors complement each other, and you go from there. Baking is a whole other beast.

The cinnamon rolls come out of the oven, and I don’t know if I’m drooling over the sight of Addie bent over in a kitchen or the smell of the cinnamon rolls. It is probably a mixture of both. But I’m leaning more toward Addie.

Working with her in the kitchen makes her that more attractive. Is baking my cup of tea? Not really. It may be relaxing, but I’ll stick to my day job. However, sharing a kitchen with her and making a meal together sure as fuck is. Damn. I got it bad for the damn redhead. What the hell was I thinking?

“And now, we are going to make the frosting.”

Okay. I’m out.

“How about you make the frosting, and I stare and admire how good you look in the kitchen?” I hitch my thumb over my shoulder and point to my now designated bar stool that I would really like to return to.

“Fine. And here I thought I was going to make you my apprentice.” She feigns disappointment as she grabs all her ingredients and moves them in front of her.

“I’m already the apprentice to one pain in the ass. I don’t need to double-book myself. But thanks for the thoughts.”

I watch her mix all the ingredients, creaming the butter and cream cheese, and then slowly adding in the powdered sugar. I do my best to fight off a laugh when a puff of white comes out of the mixture and covers her face with powdered sugar.

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