Page 33 of Forbidden Obsession
A weight falls from my shoulders, and the pleasant warmth of true friendship fills my chest. “Thank you, Falen. And should you change your mind about things, you can expect the same from me.”
He thrusts a hand forward, and we clasp wrists. His skin glimmers like that of the fae, while mine is sun-ruddy like a human’s, but his shake is firm and full of trust.
If only every disagreement were so easily handled.
ChapterFourteen
Jindal
“You?”Bessa glares at me from the other side of her kitchen table, hands on her waist, brows arched in such a disbelieving fashion that should be insulting, but only makes me laugh. “Want to learn to cook? After all these years?”
It’s not that I want to learn to cook exactly—though that will be a pretty useful side-effect—it’s more that Bessa has been on my mind lately. Though she’s been like family to me my whole life, I don’t know her as well as I should. I know her heart, her generosity, her kindness, which she gives to me so freely. But who is Bessa, really? What does she like? How does she feel? What does she long for in life?
Once Bird gave me the idea to ask for cooking lessons, I couldn’t let it go. It’s the perfect ruse for all my questions.
“Are you trying to put me out of a job, youngling?” she sasses, her tone light, but it only reminds me that this is her work. We’re not her real family.
“Never.” I cross my heart with my fingers. “I’m lonely without Rahz, and I don’t wish to be underfoot, so I thought if I learned to help, maybe you’d let me hang around?”
Her expression softens like the petals of a morning flower unfurling. “Of course you can hang around. You don’t need to learn to cook for that. You’re always my favorite company.”
Her words touch my heart and bring a smile to my lips.
She pats my cheek. “Miss him pretty bad, don’t you?”
“So bad.” Like half my soul is gone, leaving me with an empty place inside that only Rahz’s return can fill. I hope he and Falen are well, and they’re on their way back, but it’s probably too soon for that. Ugh. We’re not even halfway through our separation, and I’m already losing my mind without him.
Bessa gestures to the kitchen stools. “Pull up a chair. I’ll be baking bread this afternoon. You may as well learn how to make the dough.”
We’re at her house, not mine. She rents a little cottage in town, just two rooms, but more than enough for one person. The delicious aroma of freshly baked bread lingers, even though there isn’t any yet. The scent must have permeated the very walls. I love it so much I suck in a deep breath through my nose and savor it.
I’ve been here before, but since she’s at my place so often, this is an unusual setting for us. Arguably, Father’s kitchen is her territory, but her own is even more so. Evidence of Bessa’s care surrounds us. Handmade yellow curtains with green ivy embroidery frame each window, the little clay figurine of a sheep I sculpted for her when I was small stands guard over a petite bookshelf brimming with tomes, and a pile of abandoned knitting waits in her favorite chair. The atmosphere is cozy. I like being at Bessa’s place.
I grab a stool and pull it up to the long wooden counter. Bessa has already coated the surface in flour.
“Most bread recipes need a leaven.” Bessa holds a glass jar out for my inspection. Inside is a white, bubbly, sour-smelling substance. I’ve seen her use this before. “It’ll make the loaf rise. Without it, you get a lump of brick. Edible but not ideal. We want our bread fluffy.”
“Start with leaven. Got it.”
“No, you start with your dry ingredients. Flour, salt, maybe a little sugar if you’re feeling frisky.” She dumps these into a mixing bowl and digs a little trench at the center. “The leaven and water go here, and we mix until the dough comes together. If it’s too wet or sticky, add more flour. Too dry or crumbly, add more water.”
“Makes sense.” I watch her work as I’ve done many times before. Bessa’s strong, capable hands scoop and mix in a quick, practiced motion. “I know what comes next.”
She arches a singular brow. “Do you now?”
“Yes. We knead the dough. Over and over for an eternity.” Or at least it felt that way when I was a child.
Bessa chuckles. “More like twenty minutes, but yes. That’s next. You can help with that part while I mix a second batch.”
“Who is the next batch for?”
“Both of these will go to the beekeeper. I’m trading them for the honeycomb I use in my pastries.”
I grin. “A very worthy cause indeed.”
When she smiles, her cheeks plump, and her eyes crinkle at the corners. Age lines have formed there like they do in all humans eventually. They’ll only deepen with time, and though they’re beautiful, it makes me sad to think of Bessa getting older.
“What’s your favorite recipe?” I ask. It’s as good a place to start as any.
