Page 48 of Strong and Wild

“Okay, that’s probably enough for today. We can let this proof overnight in the fridge, and we can bake it tomorrow morning if you’re around. Sound good? I can clean up.”

“Do I get to wash my hands before you kick me out in a hurry?”

“Oh, ha! Yeah, you can use the sink to wash your hands. It’s over there.” I stupidly direct him to the faucet.

“Yup. I see that.”

I keep myself busy by scraping up the bits of dough stuck to the granite slab while he washes his hands.

“Thanks for the lesson. Tomorrow around ten okay?”

“Sure. Good. Yup. Fine.” I nod like a lunatic, dropping my scraper and ushering him out the door. He’s far too attractive. It’s obvious I am kicking him out when he doesn’t even have time to put his shoes on. He leans down and picks them up, then walks backward across the hall with a big shit-eating grin on his face. He knows he got to me. I couldn’t have made that more clear if it was painted on my forehead.

“This was fun.” He beams.He has nice lips.

Say goodbye and shut the door, McCoy.

“K. Bye,” I say, standing at the threshold of the door before promptly shutting it.

Once he’s gone, my arm drapes over my forehead and I close my eyes, looking toward the sky. Good God, that man.

Yes, hi. I’d like to make a deposit into my Jill till, please.

NINETEEN

Today, I’ll be ready for him. As I run the conditioner through my hair, I finish my pep talk. Rhys will probably be back to his normal stir-the-pot self, but I’ll be unaffected now that I don’t have to deal with the simulated gluten porn from yesterday’s lesson. We’re literally just slapping some flour on it and throwing it in the oven. There’s nothing sexy about watching a timer.

I finish washing my hair and getting ready. By 9:45 a.m., I’m standing in my kitchen, staring at the swollen ball of dough like it offended me.

“You know why you look like that, don’t you?” I say to the ball. “It’s because you let him grab you and toss you around like a damn ragdoll. How about you show a little self-respect today, huh?”

It stares back at me.

“Stop looking at me like that. This is about you. Not me.”

No response.

“No, I’m not saying you were asking for it!”

My reprimand to the dough is interrupted by three knocks at the door. My stomach flips. He’s ten minutes early today. I open the door, and he doesn’t hide his eyes roving over my body.Stay strong.

“How big is my ball?”

“Excuse me?”

“The dough.”

“Your ball is fine. Average, at best.”

“That’s a first.”

I roll my eyes. “The oven is already preheating. It takes a while because the cast iron dutch oven needs to get up to temp as well. I’m going to give it another fifteen before we pull it out.”

“So... do you think all this preheating will get you hotter than you were yesterday watching me work the dough?”

“Ya know what?” I shove the bowl of dough into his chest and push him toward the door. “You can take this back to your apartment. Cook it for twelve hours at thirty-six hundred degrees. Bye.”

“No, no, no, no.” He chuckles. “I’ll stop. Promise.”

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