by Ava Miles
He couldn’t contain a half smile. “I’m seeing this gamble through to the end,” he said, picking up the paint can. “Jane, you were right when you said I was bored and…searching for a purpose. Things have started to become clearer for me here. That alone has made this trip worthwhile.”
She smiled, and now he saw the kind woman behind the poker face. “I’m glad, Evan. I…came from money. No one knows better than I do that money can’t buy happiness.”
Since he was starting to feel like he was caught in some 1960s sitcom, he simply shook his head and reached down to grab one of the remaining paint trays. “Thanks for stopping by and checking on things. Trust me. Everything is in good hands.”
They still didn’t look completely convinced.
“We’ll let you get back to painting,” Rhett said. “When you finish working for Margie, Abbie and I could use your help painting the nursery. That is, if you don’t have any other jobs lined up.”
“I don’t,” he said, touched the man would extend the offer.
“And Matt and I finally have agreed on paint colors in a few of the rooms in our house now that we’ve moved in together,” Jane added.
“Great.” Maybe if he spent more time painting, he would finally achieve the breakthrough he was on the verge of making. “I’ll let you know when she’s run out of things for me to do.”
They said their goodbyes and walked out the door. He closed it behind them and paused for a moment.
It was weird being checked up on and looked after.
Funny thing was that while part of him was annoyed, another part of him kind of liked it.
***
Margie hated how nervous she was about the cinnamon roll tasting. Jill had given her a half day off so she could bake rolls that would be warm from the oven when her guests arrived. She’d already prepared a pan of rolls that would be served room temperature alongside Grandma Kemstead’s rolls.
Earlier that morning, Margie’s sexy tenant had helped her set out the dishes she wanted to use. Her nerves must have been evident judging from the sweet way Evan had handled her.
Evan was good at handling things, she had discovered. Anything from a paint roller to a lively conversation about science fiction with Martin, who usually couldn’t be coerced into saying two words.
She forced her gaze back to the ingredients she’d arranged on the counter. The microwave dinged, signaling the milk was ready. She used the tip of her finger to test the temperature, and finding it warm, took out the bowl and added the melted butter. Once it was well mixed, she whipped in the egg yolks, which would give the bread its beautiful buttery color. The yeast was proofing nicely nearby, bubbling and frothing in a small bowl.
Grandma Kemstead used industrial mixers at the bakery, but she’d told Margie she used a simple hand mixer at home. While Margie had tried that once, she’d settled on using her bread machine. Easier all around.
One of Grandma Kemstead’s secrets was to let the dough rise twice. Not all bakers bothered with it, but the older woman had made a zealous defense. Margie had tried it both ways and concluded she was right. It did make a difference.
After adding the flour, a dash of salt, and the sugar to the bread machine’s Teflon pan, Margie poured the milk mixture and yeast over the dry ingredients. The machine beeped when she activated the dough cycle, then erupted with a few loud swoops as it began to mix. Unfortunately, her bread machine was of the loud variety. She waited to see if she needed to add more flour, and once she was satisfied with the consistency, she closed the lid.
With that done, Margie put together the ingredients that would turn into the gooey caramel sauce. It was a simple mixture of cream, sugar, cinnamon, and corn syrup. Grandma Kemstead said the cinnamon rolls turned out better when she poured the mixture on the risen rolls when the sauce was room temperature.
The pungent and alluring scent of cinnamon hit her nose, and she closed her eyes for a moment. Cinnamon now smelled like success to her. Her success. She dabbed some behind her ears for luck.
Tonight she would find out how close she was to achieving one of her major goals for the bakery. Her guests would each bring something special to the tasting. First, there was Control Group A: the Dare Valley born locals. All of them had been eating the famous Kemstead cinnamon rolls for their entire lives, and Arthur Hale alone had nearly seventy years of experience. Jill would also bring her background in the food and hotel industry in Dare Valley to the table, so to speak, and her husband Brian was an accomplished, traditionally trained chef who could offer a more technical perspective on her pièce de résistance, as the French said.
Then there was Control Group B: Dare Valley newcomers. This group included Chef Terrance Waters from The Grand Mountain Hotel, whom Jill had put her up to asking. She’d also invited his fiancé, Elizabeth Saunders—the teacher of the Latin dance class she loved taking but hadn’t found time for lately. Then there was Evan, the late addition. This way there would be an even number in both groups.
A little breathless from thinking about it, she glanced up when the bread machine finished its first kneading cycle and opened the lid. Sure enough, there was a gorgeous ball tucked into the bottom, anchored by the kneading ring. She touched the yellow dough to confirm it was spongy, closed the lid again, and left the kitchen to prepare the dining room for the tasting. Evan had promised to help her clean up after everyone left, to which she’d easily agreed. Being in his company sometimes felt just as magical as baking that first loaf of bread in the morning.
When the bread machine turned on sixty minutes later and started the second knead cycle, Margie already had the table set. She’d chosen to use small dessert plates in a green and gold pattern she’d found at a consignment shop. Chunky blue candles were fitted into crystal candle holders. The silverware sparkled under the light. The water glasses didn’t have a single errant drop on their exteriors. The room was warm and inviting, and after she finished checking on the bread—rising for the second time—she took a moment to stretch and think through her plan for the evening. She planned to serve room-temperature cinnamon rolls as well as ones straight out of the oven.
Grandma Kemstead had stopped by a few hours ago to drop off the rolls Margie would serve with her own room-temperature batch for the taste test, but she’d declined to stay for the tasting. With her hands on Margie’s shoulders, the older woman said the mantle was now on her. She got a little teary eyed every time she thought about it.
Then she opened a bottle of red wine, inhaling deeply before she poured herself a glass. Out loud, she said, “Here’s to me and all my cinnamony awesomeness for following my dreams.”
“I’ll drink to that,” a familiar voice said, causing her to jump and the wine to slosh around in her glass like ocean water in a powerful storm.
“Evan! You startled me.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “Now I’m embarrassed. You heard my toast.”
His mouth tipped up in that killer smile of his. “Cinnamony awesomeness? That has to be the best toast I have ever heard.” He had one hand tucked around his back like he was hiding something, and then he swung around a huge bouquet of flowers and presented them to her with a courtly bow.
“You got me flowers?” she asked, taking the mixed bouquet of pink roses and lime-green hydrangeas from him. No one had gotten her flowers since Howie.
“It’s a big day for you,” he said simply.
She rose on her toes and kissed his cheek. “Thank you. That’s…you’re going to make me cry.” The heat in her cheeks felt like she’d stuck her face in the oven. “Care to join me for a glass of wine?”
“I’d love to. You deserve to be celebrated.”
She set the flowers aside as the flush rose again, but this time, it lodged between her breasts. Suddenly she could imagine him celebrating her and how good he would be at it. To veil her gaze, which only wanted to take in the strong lines of his muscular shoulders and chest, she reached into the cabinet for another wine glass and poured him some of
the spicy ruby liquid.
When they lifted their glasses in the air, he said, “To Margie’s cinnamony awesomeness and all the success she’s going to have with Hot Cross Buns.”
Hearing his deep voice say the words made her chest tight. In a good way. “Thanks, Evan. I’m really grateful you’re here.”
He nodded, and they drank in silence for a long moment. The bread machine dinged, signaling the conclusion of the second rising. She opened the lid and liked what she saw. There were small bubbles around the top and sides, and the dough bounced when she touched it.
“One of the things I love about bread is how alive it is.”
Evan peered over her shoulder, and she fought a shiver as his subtle scent washed over her. There was pine from his soap with a touch of turpentine from cleaning the rollers and brushes. The fragrance was all man to her nose. Having grown up around wealthy men who wore expensive cologne as a nod to their masculine power, she preferred ones who smelled like they worked for a living. She’d loved the smell of sawdust on Howie, but she had to admit there was something tantalizing about turpentine.
“Of course, it’s alive. I think it’s cool that yeast is a single-celled organism, and yet its cellular organization is similar to ours.”
“I didn’t know that.” She loved all the little unexpected things he knew. Part of her wanted to step back until his arms were around her. She’d bet he knew how to hold a woman close—but with gentleness. “I think it’s cool that with bread, what you want is the carbon dioxide, whereas when you use yeast for wine, you want the alcohol.”
“The best substances in nature give off more than one bio product.”
Leave it to him to say something like that. “I’m glad you don’t think I’m weird.”
“Moi? Am I not the inventor of the Paint Prep Mistress?” His chuckle was as dark and gooey as the caramel sauce she stirred with the spoon resting nearby. “We’ll overlook the fact that you thought I was weird at the time.”
He was still standing close enough to touch her, following her progress. She could step away, but that was the last thing she wanted to do. “You’re a bigger man than I am for forgetting that.”
“I think Mother Nature would agree,” he said, gesturing to his tall frame. “Not that you aren’t perfect the way you are. You’re a pocket Venus.”
Her mouth parted. “Wow! No one has ever called me that. It might be the best compliment I’ve ever had. I love that statue—”
“In the Louvre,” he finished.
It was weird, how they read each other’s minds. Now that she was one hundred percent sure he found her attractive, her skin buzzed with sensation.
“What about your cinnamony awesomeness?” he quipped. “That’s a pretty cool compliment.”
But she’d made that one up herself. “True. Okay. You got me there.”
She washed her hands and dried them off so she could handle the dough, needing space so she could avoid breaking her own rules and his current celibacy vow. Gently setting it on the floured surface she’d prepared to roll it out, she eyed the clock on the stove. Her guests would arrive in ninety minutes. The timing was perfect.
“Can I watch you assemble them? I have an idea in my head, but…” He gestured to the dough. “I like seeing how things are put together.”
“I got that about you,” she answered, oddly touched. “Of course you can.”
The dough was already calling to her, so she grabbed the rolling pan and dusted it with flour. Working gently, she exerted a downward pressure until the dough started to thin out into the shape of a large rectangle. Her passes over the dough grew more sweeping, and she paused from time to time to dust the rolling pin and the countertop to make sure the dough didn’t stick. When she was satisfied that the dough was an even half an inch thick, she stepped away to pop the butter in the microwave.
“Ah, butter,” he said with a cute smile on his face. “Anything worth eating must by definition have at least one stick of butter in it. I love the French for how much they worship butter.”
The microwave chimed when the cycle came to an end, and she stirred the butter with the tip of her finger. She wanted it melted, but not too hot. “I know. They even have different butter than we do in the States.”
“Yeah,” he said, squatting down until he was eye level with her rolled out dough. “There’s a higher butter-solids-to-water ratio in France.”
Again, she had to marvel at his mind. He was a man with a genuine curiosity for life, and it was so downright sexy, she felt like the dough: all laid out before him. She swallowed thickly.
“Where do you learn all this stuff?” she asked.
“I read a lot,” he said, but his frame went from relaxed to stiff. “Or I used to. I need to start doing more of it again. Are you basting the bread with all that butter? No wonder it’s so delicious.”
He clearly didn’t want her to ask him any more questions along that line, so she nodded. “Yes, I’m using all of it. Grandma Kemstead doesn’t baste. She dumps.” Tipping the bowl, she let the butter spill over the dough like a giant yellow flood. “She uses her fingers to spread the butter.” It was rather sensual, but Margie couldn’t say that to him, not when the atmosphere around them already crackled with electricity.
Once the butter was spread, she picked up the bowl of sugar she’d measured and poured it evenly over the dough. Then she grabbed the industrial-size cinnamon, not caring that her hands were tacky, and shook a healthy stream on top. The sugar was already being absorbed by the butter, and the cinnamon soon turned from rust to dark brown as the butter enveloped it as well.
“That’s a masterpiece,” Evan said, staring at her doughy canvas. “I can see why you love this so much. It’s a layered process filled with what the French would call la sensualité.”
Sensuality. So he felt it too. The word hovered between them. His eyes locked with hers, pinning her in place.
“The French are all about la sensualité,” he said, but this time his voice was deeper, darker.
Places below the countertop turned liquid, and she fought for breath. “And joie de vivre,” she burst out. “Don’t forget that.”
His gaze dropped, releasing her back to herself. She was finally able to inhale.
“I could never forget the joy of life,” he said, stepping away to give her room. “What’s next?”
Wishing she could shake her body free of the goosebumps shivering up her arms, she took the ends of the dough between her fingers. “Now, you simply roll the dough. Almost like you’re making hay bales.”
He laughed, and even to her ears, her description sounded lame. She kept going, letting the familiar motions ground her. When she finished rolling all the dough into one long…tunnel—okay she really needed a new metaphor—she pinched the ends and reached for a large knife.
“Now you cut them into rolls,” she said and did, slicing the first one about two-and-a-half inches thick. The buttery mixture oozed out, streaked with the brown flecks of cinnamon. “Then you lay them down on a greased pan so the rolled layers face up.”
“Awesome,” he said, and her breath caught again at the trace of awe in his voice. He was acting like he was watching her create a masterpiece, and since that’s how she felt making bread and other yummy delights, the urge to reach for his hand to strengthen their connection was too strong to ignore.
He stilled when her fingers touched the back of his palm, which was resting on the counter. His blue eyes locked with hers again, and she met them dead on. In them was the same desire she was feeling, along with a touch of surprise. He hadn’t expected her touch, and because he hadn’t, it only made her want to touch him more.
“Evan…I…thank you for sharing this with me,” she said. “Other than Grandma Kemstead, I haven’t baked with anyone. It’s…”
“Nice to share our passions,” he finished for her. “I know. I have a friend who shares mine sort of, but not too many other people get it. Creating can be a lonely process somet
imes.”
She saw it then, with her eyes on his, unflinching. There was a deep well of loneliness inside him. That’s what had led him to Dare Valley. She allowed herself to give him a spontaneous hug and then jumped back, not trusting herself. He still lived in her house, and…and… Things just hadn’t worked out with Howie. He’d been an artistic type and loner too.
She knew she was making excuses.
He cleared his throat and picked up his wine glass, then took a healthy sip as he watched her finish cutting the rolls and laying them in the pan. Unable to meet his eyes now, she grabbed a towel and covered them.
“Now, we let the yeast do its job,” she said, placing the rolls in a sunny spot in the kitchen so they could expand and rise.
“Thanks for showing me,” he said in a deeper voice than usual. “It’s an honor to watch a master at work. I’m…ah…going to take a shower before your guests arrive.”
“Okay,” she said, and she dared a glance at him again.
His eyes met hers one last time before he stepped out of the kitchen. She sipped her wine, thinking about the water trickling down the hard lines of his body. Deep in her belly, she wanted to join him, but she breathed through the longing until it subsided. She hoped he would come back down and keep her company after his shower, but the water shut off. A few minutes passed, and he still didn’t come.
The rolls rose under the towel as the wall clock ticked off the time. When they were ready, she warmed the oven to three hundred seventy-five, struggling with herself and all the new emotions Evan had awoken in her. Finally, she walked to the base of the stairs, gripping the railing.
“Evan?” she called out.
His door opened, and he came to the top of the stairs. “Hey.”
“Hey,” she said like they hadn’t just gotten all hot and bothered in the kitchen. “I’m about ready to finish the rolls and pop them into the oven. Do you want to see the final step?”
As he came down the stairs, she saw his hair was still damp from his shower and curlier than when it was dry. It was rather sexy, and so was the pine scent of his soap that flooded her senses as he approached her.
