Page 27 of We Can Do
“One of these?” She grabs a proofing basket from a shelf, holding it up like she’s found treasure.
“Exactly. Flour a cloth and line the basket, please.”
Her movements are surprisingly lithe and confident, despite never doing this before. She handles the cloth with care, dusting it with flour in smooth, even strokes, and I have to work to not stare at the grace in her movements, the way she bites her lip slightly in concentration.
“Now take the dough and gently set it into the basket.” I demonstrate with careful hands, cradling the dough like an infant.
“And then bake it.” She starts to move toward one of the ovens, eager as a puppy.
“In two hours.”
She stops mid-step and turns back, frowning. “Two hours?”
“Yep.” I chuckle at her obvious disappointment. “It has to rise.”
“This takes forever.” The complaint is good-natured, but I can see her trying to recalculate her evening.
I shrug and lean against the counter, the familiar steel cool against my palms. “It’s a slow process. It’s worth it, though. Good things take time.”
“What do you do while you wait?”
“Usually I have plenty to do. Get other breads out of the oven and onto cooling racks. Clean and prep. Check the starters. Rotate stock. There’s always something in a bakery.”
She looks around the pristine kitchen, taking in the already-clean surfaces, the organized shelves, the floors I mopped an hour ago. “But there’s nothing to do now.”
“Uh... no. There’s not.” Damn. I hadn’t thought about all the time we would have on our hands. I was too distracted with the weekend’s to-do list to properly plan for this lull. The silence stretches between us, uncomfortable as an overproofed dough. “We can clean this stuff up, though.”
She grabs a towel from the stack I keep by the sink and wipes off the counter with determined strokes, then absentmindedly touches her face, leaving a perfect white handprint on her cheek.
“You have, uh, flour.” I point to my own cheek, trying to mirror where hers is marked.
“Where?” She touches her cheek with floury fingers, somehow making it worse, smearing even more flour across her face like war paint.
“All over now,” I laugh, the tension breaking.
“Oh.” She bursts into giggles, the sound bouncing off the kitchen walls and warming something in my chest.
“Here.” I grab a clean towel from the stack and step closer. Too close. I can smell her shampoo—something fresh and clean that cuts through the persistent yeast-and-flour scent of the bakery. I gently wipe her cheek, the towel soft between my fingers and her skin. Her eyes lock onto mine, something soft and promising there, pupils dilated in the kitchen’s fluorescent lighting, and with a start I realize just how close we are.
Inches apart. Tantalizing, agonizing inches apart. I can feel the warmth radiating from her body, can see the pulse fluttering at her throat.
My every cell vibrates, a new life force spreading through them like yeast activating in warm water. Heat blooms across my face and shoots down my arms and into my hands—which inch to take the place of the towel and touch her cheek directly, skin to skin.
“Did you get it?” She whispers, her breath stirring the air between us.
“Uh, I...” My breath hitches, catching somewhere between my lungs and throat. “Almost.”
Her gaze searches mine, and the magnetic force between us strengthens, inexorable as gravity. I’ve been fighting it this whole week, building walls of professionalism and past hurts, and I know I should walk away. Give up this silly desire right here and now. Step back. Create distance. Remember all the reasons this is a bad idea.
But instead, I find myself moving forward, my lips crashing into hers.
Chapter Eleven
Alexis
Noah’s mouth collides with mine, and I gasp, shocked at the electric current that runs through me at the touch. The warmth of his lips sends shivers down my spine, and for a moment, I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but feel.
He doesn’t slow down, his lips moving against mine with a steady rhythm that makes my knees weak. The faint taste of coffee lingers on his mouth, mixed with something uniquely him. I press into him, my fingers curling into his shirt, feeling the heat of his body through the soft cotton. The bulky muscles that I’ve had my eye on are right there, nothing but thin fabric keeping them from my touch. His chest is solid beneath my palms, rising and falling with his quickened breath.
