Page 3 of Knotting With A Stranger

Are you sure you want evidence of my crime?I type back.

I’ll risk it. Show me your worst.

Heart racing—from panic or excitement, I’m not sure—I snap a quick photo of the kitchen disaster. Flour everywhere, bent mixer attachment, and the concrete-like batter in all its glory. I even make sure to get my flour-covered hands with pink nail polish in the shot just to prove I’m really baking.

Behold, the scene of the crime,I send.

The response is immediate.This is the most beautiful crime scene I’ve ever witnessed. Though your murder weapon needs work. Too obvious. Cake is amateur hour.

His next message comes with a photo—firm hand wrapped around a coffee mug, sleeve rolled up to reveal a muscular forearm that makes my breath catch. In front of him, just a plain white wall gives nothing away.

Can’t all be professional destroyers of kitchens,he sends.

I bite my lip, studying that arm—not too hairy, but enough to tell me he’s a man. Definitely works out.

A man with muscles who can also banter? Now that’s dangerous.

Dangerous is my middle name,he replies. Right after secretly plotting something.

Oh? And here I thought you were just another pretty forearm in a mystery office.

I’ll never tell. Though, I will say my sourdough starter has seen things.

The mixer grunts as it churns, reminding me that I’m supposed to be fixing a crisis, not chatting with a stranger about murderous baking. But I can’t seem to stop.

Your sourdough starter sounds dangerous. Does it have a name?

Bertha. She’s beautiful and terrifying. Now, a baker like you would have a starter, too... I won’t believe you if you say otherwise.

I giggle, surprising myself. It’s been a while since anyone’s made me laugh so early in the morning.

Name?

I roll my eyes but find myself typing.Chonky. He’s my dad’s legacy - three years strong and still terrorizing health inspectors.

You let your starter commit crimes against public officials? I’m shocked and impressed.

I find myself giggling.Hey, those rashes were purely coincidental. Probably.

Probably?

What Chonky does in his free time is his business. I just provide the flour and turn a blind eye.

A criminal mastermind AND her accomplice. I’m talking to a dangerous woman here.

I catch myself grinning at my phone like an idiot.Says the man having an existential crisis over cake batter at 5 AM.

Fair point. I maintain the batter started it.

I should be worried that this conversation feels so natural. Instead, I perch on a kitchen stool, cake temporarily forgotten.

Judge all you want, but that cake batter started it.

Victim blaming. Tsk tsk.

The sky outside is lightning, snow still falling in thick flakes. Time is running out until opening time, a wedding cake to save, and morning baking to start. Instead, I’m sitting in my flour-dusted kitchen, having the strangest conversation of my life.

So, the mystery texter continues.Do you often assault innocent baked goods this early?

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