Page 21 of My Grumpy Sweetheart
I took a deep breath. For some reason, I had the feeling this was going to be a long afternoon.
CHAPTERSEVEN
BAILEY
Hot – cold – hot – cold – hot – cold.
Dakota was certainly keeping me on my toes, but I didn’t mind that. My prickly, grumpy axe murderer was finally thawing. We even had a moment. Granted, a very short one until our baking instructor had interrupted us, but it totally counted.
While I felt his whole body tense under my hand at the sound of the new voice, I turned my head to the front of the classroom equipped with multiple baking and cooking stations and saw the epitome of what I’d expect a pie baking instructor to look like.
The lady at the front was maybe in her late fifties, early sixties; a slightly rounded figure; a bright smile; and glowing red, rounded cheeks. All about her screamed happy baker, from the frilly, dark pink apron to the fifties style dress peeking out from underneath that sported an honest to god pie-print. Like a dark plum color with thousands of small, steaming hot pies printed all over it.
She was a character — and I was in love.
Seriously.
Could she be even more perfect?
“Okay, we’re all gathered here today to make some beautiful, delicious home-made pies you’ll all want to devour. And I get that, I really do. I swear, as soon as I scent the crispy-gooey deliciousness, I’ll want to jump it, too. And you will be able to do just that. There’s only one thing I ask younotto do: we really, really don’t need a reenactment ofAmerican Pie.”
Yes, yes she could.
I couldn’t suppress a snort, followed by full-out loud laughter at the serious way she’d asked this. Meanwhile, Dakota stared at her somewhat horrified, his eyes wide open, mouth agape.
“You might think this is funny, young Mr.,” she told me with a little headshake, her perfectly coiffed hair not moving even an inch, “but I wouldn’t tell you that if it hadn’t happened before. And trust me, that’s really not something I ever want to see again.”
I wasn’t so sure she was joking anymore, but it didn’t really matter. I loved the way she’d told the story, and I obviously wasn’t the only one. She had the rapt attention of everyone in the room. Most looked amused, a few a little put-out, but they were all listening to every word she was saying while she was showing us the different steps it took to make the perfect apple pie — so good you definitely wanted to put it in your mouth instead of putting your dick in it. Her words.
“Now the pie is ready to go in the oven, which means it’s time for you to get started yourself. I’ll stop by every one of you, but if you have any questions, don’t be shy and wave me over. Okay?”
A few people mumbled something that could be taken as a yes before every couple chose a table.
“Here,” I said, hefting one of our baskets full of apples onto the stainless steel countertop that clashed a little with the farmhouse décor. But I got it. Stainless steel had to be easier to clean. “So… what part do you want to do?”
Dakota furrowed his brows, shrugging. He was back in a flannel, an olive green and black plaid one, wearing a black V-neck shirt underneath that showed a bit of his ginger chest hair.
“Can’t we just start?”
I laughed. “I’m a fan of clear boundaries — in relationships and baking. We’ll make a mess if we’re both trying to do the same thing. So… you can either do the crust or the filling.”
Silence. Well, not really. The other teams were loud, and for some reason, I heard a mixer running — which definitely hadn’t been part of the instructions.
“This is stupid,” Dakota said. “We should just relax and get to eat the pie, not doing all this free labor. Is this a vacation or training to start working here?”
“Not the point, soo… crust or filling?”
He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face in an attempt to hide his exasperated expression from me.
The apple picking had worked out better than expected. We’d managed a real conversation and had even strewn in the occasional humor, but now it seemed like we were back to square one.
And I didn’t like it.
Oh, I liked him grumbly, I liked his frowny face, I liked the exasperation — if it wasn’t directed at me. Him grumbling at Sean and being grumpy about everything while joking and talking to me like a regular human being? Maybe it was wrong, but it made me feel important. Like he was letting me in.
“Crust,” he finally grumped, grabbing a bowl from one of the cupboards. Apparently, we were back to one-word answers. And after this morning, that just wouldn’t fly.
I needed to make him loosen up a little. If he stopped thinking about this as work, he’d have fun.
