Page 32 of Go Cook Yourself

“Something pop?” he says without inflexion, rolling up his sleeves and making my stomach flop.

“After the day I’ve had, I want nineties indie anthems. Do you know Jader?”

He throws his head back and laughs. He’s so different from the guy I met nearly a month earlier. “I partied hard with them as a teenager and then spent a summer working in the restaurant on the drummer’s cheese farm. They’re good lads. But can we start with Oasis? I’m feeling theirMorning Gloryalbum, then maybe Kenickie and a bit of Republica.”

His grin leaves me imagining what he was like in his partying days. The Garett I’ve met seems a bit broken, and every new side is a refreshing revelation that I want more insight into.

“Hard partier and restaurant worker on a cheese farm. Who are you?”

He shrugs, but his smile is wistful. As “She’s Electric” blasts from the stereo, he watches me work. He gives me pointers on changing the taste and different methods to combine ingredients while sharing stories from his partying days.

My skills are on show, but instead of feeling uncomfortable and defensive, his smooth instructions and gentle advice make my limbs looser and my heart flush. As I knead the dough, it’s like I’m kneading the kinks out of my shoulders or maybe the twists from my past.

“You know a lot about what the judges want. How come?” I press the dough with my hands, stretching it slightly before remembering I’m not meant to be making bread. His cinnamon scent is occasionally distracting.

“I worked under a famous television baker and judge for a while. People would stop and listen to her advice whenever she walked into the kitchen. She was the kindest woman unless you messed with her baking, and then she’d rip you a new one. I learnt a lot.”

“We’re talking about the baker who feigns innocence at every innuendo, and yet her necklaces resemble anal beads?”

He chuckled. “Maybe. Now stop distracting me and yourself and press that dough properly. Have you tried doing it slightly differently and moving your fingers like this?” He shoves his hands in the dough. His fingers brush mine, and electricity zips from my fingers to my scalp.

His eyelashes flutter as he side-eyes me.

I pull my lips into my mouth to prevent myself from beaming, but the excitement still needs somewhere to go, so I let out a tiny squeal before covering it with a cough.

“Anyway, you get the idea.” He pulls his fingers back and walks to the sink. Oh shit. He knows I squealed with excitement because he touched me. I poke at the dough and grimace.

“I also know what judges want because I kind of entered a competition myself a while back.” He’s staring at the running water as he washes his hands.

“Yeah?” I keep my head down, but I glance at him occasionally. His shoulders are hunched, and he’s scrubbing his hands repeatedly.

He clears his throat. “Yeah. It was with an old business partner.”

Does he mean Clive?

I work the dough more, adding flour. He walks back to me, slower this time.

“Add a bit more here,” he instructs, and I do.

“Did you win?” I ask, teasing information out of him.

He pauses. There’s a lot about Garett I don’t know, so that could mean any competition. There’s no mention of Garett in the articles about Clive’s Best Cotswold Restaurant win, but there’s a niggling sensation in my stomach nonetheless.

“No, something happened. The business partner wasn’t the person I thought or maybe wasn’t the person I hoped. I should have known, but sometimes you trust the wrong people.”

“I get that.”

“And sometimes you make decisions, like to work exceptionally hard because that’s important.”

He reties his apron before he helps prepare the baking trays for my biscuits. Is this in reference to my voicemail from Neil or about his life?

I reach for the rolling pin, but he pushes it away.

“Not yet. One more press.” It’s a gentle command that gives me weird, achy, yet pleasurable sensations in my limbs that I don’t want to name. “That was my life. Work was the only thing that mattered to me. If I was managing a kitchen or a business and things weren’t happening efficiently and people were wasting time on things that didn’t make the business successful, they were wasting my life.”

“And now?”

He adds a little flour to the counter. It’s the fluttering thing he does. I attempt to copy it, but he chuckles. His laughter is like fingertips dancing across my skin.

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