Page 9 of Ryder
“Hey, I’m always up for a baking emergency.”
Her laugh wraps around me like warm honey. “Well in that case, grab those sheet pans. We’ve got work to do.”
And as I watch her gather ingredients with practiced grace, explaining something about thermal mass and convection patterns, I know I’m in trouble.
Because having Dana in my space, in my kitchen, looking so perfectly at home?
That’s more dangerous than any burst pipe could ever be.
Turns out “testing the oven” involves a lot more science than I expect. Dana moves around the kitchen with the precision of a surgeon, muttering about ambient temperature and humidity levels while she mixes something in a bowl.
“Hold this.” She hands me a digital thermometer like it’s a vital piece of military equipment. “And don’t let it touch the bottom of the pan.”
“Yes ma’am.” I manage to keep a straight face, but just barely. She’s adorable when she gets all commanding, especially with that smudge of flour still on her cheek. “Any other orders?”
“Don’t distract me while I’m measuring.” But her lips twitch as she levels off a cup of flour with the edge of a knife. “This is very serious business.”
“Oh, very serious.” I lean against the counter, definitely not watching how her tank top rides up when she stretches to reach the vanilla. “Life and death stuff here.”
“Mock all you want, but proper oven calibration is crucial.” She shoots me a look that’s probably meant to be stern, but the effect is ruined by the way her eyes are dancing. “The difference of ten degrees can ruin a souffle.”
“Heaven forbid.”
“Exactly.” She bumps my hip with hers as she passes, and my whole body goes hot. “Now make yourself useful and grab me six ramekins.”
I open three wrong cabinets before finding them, hyperaware of her presence behind me. The kitchen suddenly feels smaller, warmer. More intimate.
“So,” I say, desperate for distraction from how good she smells—like vanilla and honey. “Learn all this baking science in culinary school?”
Her hands still for just a moment. “Actually, no. I was supposed to go to law school.”
“What happened?”
“I chose happiness instead.” She says it simply, but I catch the undertone. “My family… they had different plans for me. When I picked baking over law, they made their disappointment very clear.”
The idea of anyone making Dana feel less than perfect makes my jaw clench. “Their loss.”
“Maybe.” She carefully spoons batter into the ramekins. “But I got something better. A chance to build something real. To make people happy, even if it’s just with a perfect chocolate chip cookie.”
“Trust me, sugar.” I catch her eye. “Your cookies do a lot more than just make people happy.”
A flush creeps up her neck. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I step closer, unable to help myself. “Know how many rough mornings your cinnamon rolls have saved? How many kids’ days you’ve made better with those little smiley face cookies? How many—”
The timer dings, making us both jump. I haven’t realized how close we’ve gotten, how the air between us has gone thick and charged.
Dana clears her throat. “Time to check the temperature variance.”
She bustles around with her thermometer and notebook, but I notice her hands aren’t quite steady. Mine aren’t either.
“Interesting,” she mutters after a few minutes of testing. “The back left corner runs about eight degrees hot.”
“Tragic.”
“It is!” But she’s laughing now. “Stop looking at me like that. This is important data.”
“Like what?”
