Page 113 of Saddle and Scent
He pulls out ingredients with the efficiency of someone who's made this recipe hundreds of times—butter, sugar, eggs, vanilla, a bottle of lemon juice that looks like it came from actual lemons rather than a plastic container.
"First lesson," he says, tying an apron around his waist. "Pie crust is all about temperature. Cold butter, cold water, cold hands if you can manage it."
He hands me an apron—a simple white cotton thing that's probably seen more flour than a wheat field—and I tie it on, feeling oddly domestic and right about the whole situation.
Like this is where I'm supposed to be.
Like this is what I've been missing without even knowing it.
"Cold hands shouldn't be a problem," I say, flexing my fingers. "I'm always freezing."
"Perfect," he says, starting to cut butter into cubes with practiced movements. "That's actually an advantage in pastry-making. Some of the best bakers I know have naturally cold hands."
The work is surprisingly meditative.
Measuring and mixing, folding and rolling, the simple pleasure of creating something with your hands that will bring joy to other people.
It's the kind of work that engages your body while letting your mind wander, the kind of rhythm that feels ancient and fundamental.
We fall into an easy pattern—him explaining techniques, me following instructions, both of us tasting and adjusting and laughing when something doesn't go exactly according to plan.
"More flour," he says when my dough sticks to the rolling pin. "And don't overwork it. Tough crust is the enemy of good pie."
He reaches around me to demonstrate the proper rolling technique, his chest pressing against my back, his hands covering mine on the pin. The contact is casual, instructional, but it makes my skin tingle with awareness.
He smells like cinnamon and vanilla and fresh bread.
Like comfort and home and all the things I didn't realize I was hungry for.
"Like this?" I ask, trying to focus on the task at hand instead of the way his breath feels warm against my ear.
"Perfect," he murmurs, and there's something in his voice that has nothing to do with pie crust.
We're standing close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
Close enough that I'm acutely aware of every point of contact between us.
Close enough that the innocent baking lesson is starting to feel like something else entirely.
When he steps back to check on the berry filling, I immediately miss the warmth of his presence. But I force myself to focus on rolling the dough into a perfect circle, using the technique he just showed me.
Concentrate on the pie, Juniper.
Not on the way his hands look when he's stirring fruit.
Not on the little crease of concentration between his eyebrows.
Not on how domestic and right this whole scene feels.
"How's it looking?" he asks, glancing over at my handiwork.
It's actually not terrible.
The circle is reasonably round, the thickness appears to be consistent, and I haven't torn any holes that I can see.
"Not bad for a novice," I say with pride.
"Not bad at all," he agrees, then grins wickedly. "Though you've got a little something?—"
