Never Let You Go: A Small Town Single Dad Romance, page 15
And I can’t fall back asleep.
My bedroom is cozy. Ish. I bought a throw blanket on sale at the General Store, thick and plush and soft, white with soft pink deer and grey bears. It looks awesome rolled on the little bench under the window. And I borrowed a few mystery books at the library and a couple of romances from Easy Monday’s stash. Just the sight of them on the shelves, lit with the full moon, makes this feel like home.
Autumn mentioned they had some cool second-hand furniture at her family’s antique store. I’ve promised to visit, although I know I won’t buy anything, because that would make it look like I’m settling here.
Darn it, I’m fully awake. I should curl up on the reading nook with a book.
But I feel responsible for talking Christopher into doing that competition. And, full disclosure, being with him right now is more enticing that snuggling under the throw blankets.
I pull on some jeans and a sweatshirt, tie my hair in a messy bun, grab my phone, and tiptoe down the stairs.
I find him in the semi-darkness of the bakery, wearing nothing but faded jeans and a tight white T-shirt, his apron still folded on a table behind him. He’s leaning on one of the prep tables, reading from a thick book plopped to the side with notes sticking out, a mound of flour on the other side, pots and pans and shit lined up in front of him and behind the book. He looks like the wizard baker he is, making his magic. A hot wizard.
“Hey,” I say softly.
His head jerks up, and his face softens when he sees me.
God he’s beautiful. “Hey,” he replies. Half a smile spreads across his lips, then he says, “It’s early.”
“I feel guilty, so I came for moral support. Plus coffee, whatever. Also, I figured I could shoot some candid videos. You know, for when you’re finally worldwide famous. A making of.” I wave my phone at him.
“What do you feel guilty about.”
Funny, that’s the only thing he picks up on. I choose not to answer. “Coffee?” I ask.
“That’d be nice.”
Minutes later, I hand him his hot and naked coffee, and cradle mine—creamed and mapled.
“What do you feel guilty about,” he repeats.
“Talking you into doing that competition and—”
“It’s true,” he interrupts me. “It was you who convinced me.”
Air whooshes out of my lungs. “Um… well, I’m not sure it was such a good idea. Seeing how you now barely get any sleep.”
“It was a fucking awesome idea.”
“Emma said—”
“Emma doesn’t know shit about me. Except my numbers. And last time I checked, I’m not a profit and loss statement. ’Cept maybe for Emma,” he says.
“Right,” I say on an exhale.
He takes a long sip of his coffee, his eyes on me. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“Anytime.”
“Careful. Might take you up on that.”
“Huh?”
“Making me coffee anytime. I kinda like it.” A smile dances in his eyes.
Oh my. “Might be the price I need to pay for talking you into a show you now think you need to prepare for when, really, you could walk in there tomorrow and win.”
His smile now spreads to his whole face. “But where would the fun be in that, when I could have you in the middle of the night right here with me,” he says.
His heated words hit my nether regions in very pleasant ways.
“Making me coffee,” he adds.
He’s not fooling me.
He looks at me pointedly. I do clearly remember what he told me the morning after The Big Shameful Evening When Alex Got Drunk, that nothing I’d said to him he didn’t like.
That he just needed me to say these words sober.
Right.
There’s a reason they call it liquid courage. He knows and I know I meant every word. At the time. Drunk. Now, sober me is struggling to get out of her shell and express the same things to him.
“Gotta take risks,” he says.
What?
“Gotta take risks in life or it gets boring.” He tips his coffee mug to me. “I got you to thank for that. I’m having fun, taking a calculated risk, at the same time finding the passion again. So thank you.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
“Come here,” he says, sending a flash of fire down my middle.
I round the prep table. When I’m close to him, he grabs the folded apron and slides it above my head, the warmth of his body sending chills down my spine as his arms graze mine. His scent pervades me—I’d recognize it anywhere. He crosses the belt behind my back, the heat of his fingers singeing through to my belly. My knees get wobbly, as they tend to when I’m close to him.
While he knots the strands of the belt in front of me, he talks, his voice caressing my insides. “Recent techniques make it so that bakers don’t have to get up at two in the morning to ensure people have their bread ready by six or seven. Now, we have mechanical kneading and slow, overnight proofing. Although this allows bakers to have a good work-life balance, it’s keeping us from having intimacy with the dough, from the real, ancestral experience of making a product come to life with our own hands from beginning to end. That’s why it’s a good idea to come back to these fundamentals, time and time again.” He tightens my belt and lets both his hands rest on my hips while his eyes dive deep into mine. “You can do your video stuff in a little bit. Right now, since you’re here, you’ll be kneading bread by hand. It can get physical.”
Oh boy. “You got up in the middle of the night to practice—”
“I got up in the middle of the night to reconnect with the essence of baking. Teaching it is even more effective. Consider yourself my muse.” His hands, still on my body, give my hips a squeeze before leaving.
He steps a safe distance away and quizzes me on the theory. I fire back the answers, my memory not failing me yet. “Not bad,” he says. “What is the water proportion for a classic baguette.”
“Sixty-five percent?”
He nods. “Get started.”
I take a deep breath.
I wash my hands thoroughly up to my elbows. Then, I weigh the flour, salt, yeast, and water, add them to a large trough and start mixing all the ingredients directly with one hand. The mixture offers resistance, and I power through. When it’s halfway homogeneous, I stretch my right hand and massage my forearm. There are still clumps of flour and pools of water that won’t blend. The mixture is really heavy, requiring me to muscle through it.
Christopher cocks his head to the side, an amused grin brightening his eyes. He doesn’t smile often, but when he does, it melts my heart. I’m trying hard not to think about what happened, or didn’t happen, between us. But the feeling of his hands on my body, the caress of his breath on my face, are impossible to forget.
My right arm cramps. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Of course you can.” A lock of hair falls over his forehead as he lowers his head and shoots me a glance hot enough to melt my core. “I’ll help you,” he says in a deep and reassuring voice. He washes his hands and forearms, dons a baker’s cap, stands by me, and shows me how it’s done: big movements that span the length of the trough, then rapidly crisscross back, fingers open to break the clumps of flour.
I get the hang of it and emulate him. His body is close to mine, and his cedar scent mingles with the sweet, earthy notes of the bread dough being formed. Our fingers touch on occasion, whether or not we want it. The dough is sticky, and the trough starts shifting. Christopher removes his hand from the dough, wipes it, and holds the trough for me. The veins in his hand stand out, the muscles in his forearm tensing each time I move the dough.
“You’re good,” he says when I’ve reached the end of the first step, but his words get me all hot and bothered again.
I cover the trough with a clean dishcloth and set the timer to ten minutes. This first pause is to ensure all ingredients hydrate homogeneously. “I’m okay with the theory. It’s the practice I’m concerned about,” I tell Christopher while I wipe my hand in a clean kitchen towel, my back to him. Ten minutes can be a very long time when there are unsaid things hanging between two people alone together. I need to reduce the awkwardness between us. “This is physically hard. I’m not sure I’ll be ready for the exam this spring.”
“You won’t be asked to knead dough by hand,” he says.
“Kay,” I say. Then I turn to face him. “About the other night. I’m sorry.”
He frowns. “The other night? You gotta stop apologizing for shit. What night are you talking about now.”
“When I got drunk.”
“You already apologized. Not that you needed to. I didn’t fire you. You’re here. We’re good.”
“What I said.”
His eyes light up with interest. “You’re gonna have to be a little more specific.”
I take a deep breath. “What I said about wanting you to kiss me,” I breathe out.
“And.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. Thought I made myself clear.”
I blink several times.
“The thing is, you want something, you have to go after it,” he says, his tone low and gentle. “Seems to me you’re the kind of woman who knows what she wants, seeing as you decided to leave a comfortable office to come here and work in the middle of the night doing something you don’t think you have a taste for, just so can go back to that office job that means so much to you right now, but I can see myself fighting you on at a later time. Going by that, I’d say you know how to get what you want. Sometimes, it’s just as simple as asking for it. In this case, I made myself clear. I think.”
Wow. That was a long speech, for Christopher.
Yup. I’m clear. Very clear. But how do I even begin asking for what I want? I want your hands all over me, your mouth claiming mine. And anything else you’d want to give me.
The timer rings and I jump out of the hold his dark eyes have on me. “Dough needs tending, sweetheart,” he says.
Sweetheart.
The dough. Right. My hands unsteady, I flour the prep table and plop the heavy dough on it. It spreads lightly like a deflated ball.
He uses his boss voice now as he guides me through the process. Strong tone, clipped orders.
Still so hot.
“Sprinkle flour on it, then fold it in half…. Now, lift it to extend it slightly, set it on the table, fold it in half, turn it one quarter counterclockwise and fold it again…. No… not quite. No hesitation, Alexandra…. Try, again. Lift, fold, and turn. Lift, fold, and turn.” He shows me, his movements strong and quick, the veins on his forearms bulging again as he flexes his muscles, the dough perfectly obedient in his knowing hands.
My thoughts drift again to dangerous territory. How would it feel to be handled by him?
More importantly, do I want to be handled by him?
Enjoy the little things.
“The baker’s gestures need to have the energy to make the necessary changes happen. The repetition, the succession between these three movements, make four fundamental but separate elements—flour, water, yeast, and salt—become one to create dough, a living thing.”
There’s nothing left from the initial mess that was in the trough. Instead, there’s a bouncy, even ball that’s pliable and reacts to his movements.
My takeaway? He definitely has good hands.
“Your turn,” he says.
A tinge of disappointment at myself helps me through this next leg of the work, giving me the false energy to lift, extend, set, fold the dough, and repeat.
“Give it a little more love,” he says.
“Wh-what?”
“The dough. Give it more love. You’re projecting a weird energy into it.”
My hands falter, and the dough slips, collapsing on itself. “I’m not good at this,” I mumble, then grab the dough again and get back to it. I have to master this. I will master this.
“Hey,” Christopher says after a few beats. He comes next to me, his arms crossed. “You’re doing great. Give it one more turn then set it to rest another ten minutes.” His voice is deep and kind.
“Kay” I whisper.
Christopher leans against the prep table. His arms are uncrossed, his hands now holding the edge of the table, his head hanging down. He seems very focused on his shoes. I focus on everything else about him. The way locks of his hair fall on his forehead, and how it would feel to run my fingers through his dark curls. The curve of his full lips and the wonder of how they would taste against mine. His powerful arms and how they’d held me and carried me and made me feel precious and wanted.
The scent of his skin.
The ticking of machines, the purring of the overhead light are the only sounds apart from our shallow breaths. They fill the whole room. Christopher clears his throat. His knuckles are white, his hands flexing on the table. “What is your motivation for this apprenticeship. Deep down.”
God. He seems worried about my chances of success. I owe him an answer I can live with. One that’s not too far from the truth. “It really is to keep my job. And also, I like to think it would have made my grandmother proud.”
“She the one who thought all men were shit?”
“What?”
“You said that, the other night. Something about misery and stuff. She’s the grandmother who made you believe that?”
“Yeah, she’s the one. She also didn’t think I amounted to much, so me being here, being successful at this apprenticeship, it would probably make her proud.”
“She sounds like a piece of work.”
“That’s putting it nicely.”
The timer rings.
I push myself up, wash my hands, and grab the dough. It’s larger and seems heavier. I’m having difficulty managing it. The last leg involves more technical movements. Christopher moves behind me and guides my hands.
“You need forceful movements, Alexandra. Like this.”
His front to my back, he cups his hands over mine, and I abandon myself to his guidance. He accelerates my movements, lifts my forearms higher so the dough can extend more, and slaps it down with energy. I’m molded to his body, encapsulated in him. His pecs flex against my shoulders. His thighs are spread on each side of my hips. His voice resonates through my bones as he comments on what we’re doing. Then, his comments die down, and it’s just the sound of our labored breaths as we work the dough, arms tangled, my body pinned under his, surrounded by his.
“One more round,” he says, the low growl of his voice vibrating through my entire being, his breath tingling my neck. The front of his body still flush against my back, I rock against him as we move in unison for the next round.
A tremor takes hold of me, an unfamiliar weakness in the knees that seems to be the signature mark of Christopher’s presence around me. I let go of the dough and hold onto his forearms as he completes the last fold. When he’s done, he stays right behind me. With shaking hands, I cover the dough with the clean cloth.
“You did it,” he murmurs, his hands caressing my bare arms. “Such delicate hands,” he adds, his fingers trailing from my wrists and up.
Shivers run through me. I close my eyes, lean against him, and rest my head against his chest. He smells like clean linen and cedar, a unique scent that drives me crazy. His chin strokes the top of my head. His hands cross my body and he pulls me tight against him, my back still to his front, and I feel his heart booming.
I whimper.
“Babe?” he growls, a question.
“Mm—hmph?”
“I’m gonna need you to be clear about what you want, like I said. We’re adults and all, but I’m your boss, technically, although at this point, I’m going to be the one doing what you tell me to. So yeah, spell it out for me.”
All while saying this, he brings one hand to my jaw while his other slowly cups my breast, then he drops his face and trails his tongue along my neck, his last words said against my skin the best kind of torture.
I tilt my head to give him easier access and moan as his fingers tease my nipple to hard pebbles.
He turns me around gently and caresses a strand of hair away from my mouth. His gaze stays there for a while, exploring. Although he says nothing, I’ve never felt so wanted in my life. My lips open on their own. Something passes through his eyes that looks like pain, then goes away.
“Let’s hear it,” he says.
I don’t have words for what I want from him.
His hand against my back strokes up and down, then he trails both hands up my sides until he’s cupping my face. My body rocks against his. He pushes me against the table. He’s hard against my belly. I lift my hands to the back of his neck and press my breasts against his torso. He lowers his mouth closer to mine until our breaths mingle. His lips graze my lower lip, then trail to the corner of my mouth. His breath hitches.
“Alexandra,” he whispers. “I’m dying to taste you.”
I close the gap between our mouths. His lips encase mine, strong and soft.
Our mouths mirror our bodies, molding to each other.
I part my lips, inviting him in. His tongue explores my insides, slowly at first, almost tentative. His taste makes me pulse, and I moan.
Our mouths fit perfectly, there’s no figuring each other out. Nothing awkward, no adjustment needed.
His tongue explores deeper, and I take him all in. He’s strong and soft at the same time, claiming and giving, so hot and so tender.
I trail my fingers in his hair, pulling him harder against me, and soon the sensory overload makes the room spin. I flinch. He wraps his arms around me, lifts me, and sets me on the table.
Wanting to have him against me again, I wrap one leg, then the other, around his hips. His kiss deepens, our tongues deliciously mingling. I nibble at his, and he groans. He cups my ass and rocks his hips against my pelvis. I lift myself off the table and latch my legs around him. He pulls his mouth away from mine, only to trail it down my neck, licking and sucking me softly in the most delicious way. His hands under my ass trail up in between my thighs. Through the light fabric of my leggings, he teases me. I moan loudly and bury my face in his neck.
