Page 59 of The Affair
But as he began to fumble around the small space, I quickly learned something new and quite interesting about the man.
Baking and cooking were two very different things, and as it turned out, Sawyer could only do one well.
“Do you need help?” I asked after a cookie sheet came crashing to the floor.
“Nope!” he declared. “I’ve got it all taken care of!”
My brow rose as my eyes widened. He really was bad at this. “At some point, aren’t you supposed to preheat the oven?”
“Shit!” He swiveled around, turning toward the very cold oven. A plume of white flour followed him.
Has he even measured the flour yet? Where did that come from?
Walking to the appliance in question, he flipped it on, and turned to me. “I’m sorry. I forgot to mention, I’m actually really terrible at this sort of thing.”
“I can definitely tell that.” How could possibly like him more after learning this little tidbit of information. “How is it that you can cook so well but bake so badly?”
His shoulders lifted. “I don’t know. Cooking has always come easy to me, but I think that’s maybe it’s because it’s a little less stringent. You can make a lot of dishes by sort of following a recipe—it’s your guide, more or less. But with baking, there are rules, you know?”
I smiled. “You’re intimidated by baking?”
“Yeah,” he answered. “Maybe a little.”
“So, why did you suggest this? Why put yourself through the torture?”
“That memory you described, the one with your grandma? There was such joy in your voice, such a sense of happiness in that one moment in time.” A second passed as his eyes met mine. “I guess I selfishly wanted to be part of that.”
I just shook my head. “I don’t think anything you do, Sawyer Gallagher, is selfish.”
He shrugged. “Well, I did pick up chocolate chips to throw into half the batch, so this might be a little selfish.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “I think we could allow that adjustment to the original recipe,” I said. “But only if you agree to try one with the raisins.”
Leaning against the counter like he was at home here, he nodded. “Deal.”
“Now, how about you let me help you?”
His lips pressed together. “That’s a hard pass. Did you forget the part about you being sick?”
I gave him a passive stare. “Did you forget the part about me not having a fever anymore? Have you ever heard of a little thing called the twenty-four-hour flu? Besides, the quicker we can get these in the oven, the sooner we can move on to you making dinner. And me eating it.”
His eyes roamed over my body, but unfortunately, it was not in the way I’d like. “You feel okay otherwise? No dizziness or anything?”
“I don’t want to go out and run a marathon or anything, but honestly, that’s pretty much my normal everyday attitude toward life, so yeah, I think I’m okay.”
His expression was doubtful, but finally, he relented. “All right, but stick to the simple things—running the mixer, grabbing things from the pantry. Leave the actual measuring and touching of ingredients to me.”
“Yes, boss,” I joked. “Now, where is this recipe? I want to see it.”
He pointed to the countertop over by the fridge. Rising from the chair, I headed over there and got my first look at my aunt’s recipe that he’d jotted down. His handwriting was neat. Slender, stacked letters, all angular in shape that spelled out the ingredients and directions for making the oatmeal cookies. In the corner though, an amount was written, and I couldn’t figure out how it correlated to everything else.
“What is this numeric value on this side?”
He jogged over and looked over my shoulder. “Oh, that’s the amount I owe your aunt.”
“Owe her? For what?”
“Some shave gel and a moisturizer,” he answered before walking back toward the stove.
