by Katy Ames
“Just that you are…enigmatic.”
“And now I don’t understand you.”
Tessa cranked the bowl of her stand mixer into place with a jerk. “Why did you come to my apartment last night?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Just answer the question.”
“Because Mark and Grace wanted me to.”
Tessa flicked on the mixer and the beater sprang to life. “That’s the only reason?” Her eyes tracked the twist of the blade through the dark batter.
“Yes.” Tristan’s fingers found the back of his neck without thought. “No.”
“So, why else?”
“Because you’re new here and don’t know anyone. Because I thought you might be lonely.”
Tessa turned off the machine, silence filling the large room the instant the mechanical hum died. She paused, her head still down. “You thought I might be lonely?”
“Yes.” His nails were digging small crescents just below his skull.
“And that was enough to bring you to my apartment with dinner, but not keep you long enough to eat?”
Tristan opened his mouth then closed it, not knowing how to answer. Tessa moved to the stove, her back to him as she stirred something in a pot. “Like I said,” he finally managed, “I’m out of practice. I don’t have dinner with friends very often.”
Tessa’s whisk clinked against the side of the pan. “Are we friends?” She was watching him over her shoulder.
“No. Yes.” Tristan pushed out a heavy breath. “Sort of.”
“Sort of,” she repeated, turning away again.
Tristan couldn’t figure out which made him more uncomfortable: their conversation or the fact that he couldn’t see her face.
“So you do have dinner with sort-of friends?”
“Yes,” seemed like the obvious answer.
“But you don’t accept dinner invitations from sort-of friends?”
Tristan felt like he’d been the one spinning in the mixer. “You got my text.”
“Yes.” Finished at the stove, Tessa flicked off the burner and brought the pan to the counter, a thin line of steam curling up around her face.
Tristan stopped short of leaning forward and taking a deep inhale. Of it, and of her. “What is that?” Whatever Tessa was adding to the mixing bowl smelled sweet and dark and a little sharp, and Tristan’s mouth was watering.
“If you’d agreed to dinner, you’d have found out.”
“I—” Tristan had to suck in a breath, his grip on his neck was so punishing. “I didn’t think it was a good idea.”
“My point exactly.” Tessa’s focus was on the fragrant, dark ribbon she was pouring into the batter, each pass of the beater blending the concoction together. “You enjoy eating food. Especially mine, if our first two encounters are anything to go by. You don’t want me to be lonely, so you show up at my place to keep me company. But I invite you to do both at the same time, and you say no. Even though you’re standing here, now, in my kitchen, staring at this bowl like it’s an oasis and you’ve just crossed the Mojave Desert. Like I said. I don’t understand you.”
“I’ve changed my mind.” The words were out of Tristan’s mouth before he could stop them. “My answer is yes.”
“Too late.” Tessa dipped a spoon into the bowl and licked the tip. “I’m not interested in forcing you to do something you obviously don’t want to do.”
But, oh, how he wanted to. He couldn’t begin to wrap his head around how much he wanted to. Tristan was pretty sure the skin on his neck was about to crack open and bleed. “Ask me again.”
Something in his voice made Tristan flinch. And Tessa stop. When their eyes met, Tristan saw hers widen. God knew what she was seeing, but he had no doubt it was something he’d spent a very long time trying to keep hidden.
“What?”
Tristan’s heart pounded just a little bit harder. His voice wasn’t the only one that sounded off-balance. “Ask me to dinner again.” Then, softly, “Please.”
Tessa waited a beat before she spoke. “Tristan Hurst,” Tessa murmured, cautious, “would you like to join me for dinner?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
That question had become a refrain over the past hour. And Tristan knew he didn’t completely believe his answer. “Yes.”
“Good.” The pieces of hair that had come loose from her braid fell in front of Tessa’s face as she resumed mixing. “Same time, same place.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” Tristan could almost feel the corners of his mouth curving up. At the very least, he didn’t think he was frowning anymore.
“Okay, now I really don’t believe you,” Tessa half-teased him from across the counter.
“Doesn’t matter,” he shot back. “Too late to take the invite back now.”
“Hmmm,” was her only response. She’d wandered away again, lining up cake pans along the counter. Tessa’s attention was back on her work. Tristan headed towards the exit, an unfamiliar prick of anticipation sliding beneath his skin at the thought of returning.
A question stopped him. “Tessa, why did you ask?”
Her head was still bent, but Tristan heard her answer clearly. “Because I don’t think I’m the only one who’s lonely.”
8
Tessa’s love of baking started when she was young. It was one answer, among many, she’d given countless times to explain why she did it, when she’d started, how she’d come to love it.
It had nothing to do with her upbringing. At least, not in the way that some children learned to love the kitchen at a parent’s side, mini-apron tied around a little body, small hands mimicking the movements of older, more practiced ones.
She didn’t have a well-worn book filled with secret family recipes. She didn’t have a father who showed her the advantage of being patient, watching yeast bloom and dough rise over many hours. She didn’t have a mother who her let lick the bowl of icing after decorating a cake. In fact, Tessa was painfully aware that her mother had no clue where to find a bowl in her parents’ glossy, pristine kitchen, let alone what to put in it to make icing.
For Tessa, baking was the antidote to her upbringing: warm and comforting and a little bit messy. Nothing like the chilly, reserved, and perennially tidy world her parents cultivated in their Upper West Side apartment.
She’d gotten a first taste of it at a childhood friend’s house. Shannon’s mom had produced a tray of fresh, just-cooled cookies and told the girls to roll up their sleeves. They were going to decorate. The hours that followed had been filled with sticky fingers, lips stained food-coloring blue, and cookie crumbs down their shirts.
It had been perfect—absolute heaven!—until Tessa’s mom had yelled at her for making their housekeeper change her bed sheets out of schedule because of the crumbs pushed down into the crevices, evidence of a midnight snack she’d enjoyed under the cover of her cashmere quilt. Her mom hadn’t been worried about their housekeeper. She was just pissed that something had fallen out of order, that Tessa had broken a rule. Her parents and their rules.
Just look where they are now….
Tessa peeked through the oven’s glass door before checking her watch one last time. Tristan was already ten minutes late. Another five and dinner would be a bust. Literally.
She had her head in the fridge, one arm jammed all the way to the back to grab the wine she’d tucked away, when she heard a chair scrape behind her.
“You made it.”
Tristan was in the same seat he’d used the last time he’d eaten in the kitchen. His dark hair was swept off his face, the long, sleek strands skimming the back of his collar. The top few buttons on his black shirt were open, exposing the hollow between his clavicles.
What would it be like to taste him, just there…? What is it about seeing him in your kitchen that makes you ravenous?
Tessa tightened her grip on the bottle. Friendly thoughts, Tessa. That was definitely not a friendly thought.<
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“I did.” He’d folded his hands on the counter and his sleeves were rolled up to reveal the defined ropes of muscle on his forearms. Tessa’s eyes tracked the intricate web of veins that spanned those arms and traced the top of his hands. Their latent strength had her itching to touch, and wondering what it would feel like if they touched her.
SOUFFLÉ! her brain shouted. Tonight was not about objectifying the solemn man in front of her. It was about dinner. And trying to coax him out of his shell a little bit. It was not about fantasizing about him putting those hands to significantly more explicit work.
“You’re just in time. I was getting worried.” Tessa hit the button on the timer a second before it went off, and the oven released a cloud of heat as she removed their dinner.
“That smells amazing.”
“Thank you.” She set the dish on the counter before coming around to take the seat diagonal from him. She scooped a large portion onto his plate, followed by a healthy side of sautéed asparagus.
Despite his praise just a moment before, Tristan looked, well, deflated.
“Something the matter?”
“No,” he answered quickly. “Was just expecting…more.”
“Oh, there’s more.” Tessa grinned. “You just have to eat your vegetables first.”
Tristan picked up his fork and pushed the asparagus around his plate. “I think I was wrong. This really was a bad idea.”
Tessa jerked up, the soufflé like ash in her mouth, until he she saw the corners of his eyes crinkle ever so slightly. It wasn’t a smile, but it was enough to know that he was teasing her. And, damn, if it didn’t make Tessa suddenly lose her appetite.
“Just eat,” she muttered.
They ate in comfortable silence, through another helping of cheese soufflé for Tristan, and a few forkfuls of asparagus off his plate for Tessa.
She was about to clear their dishes when Tristan jumped up and took them to the sink. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I do,” he answered. “That’s the rule, right? You cook, I clean.”
She hopped off her stool. “Or I clean, you cook. It’s less about who does what and more about division of labor.”
“That sounds very official.” Tristan ran the water until steam billowed up from the sink.
“Just kitchen rules. Keeps everyone friendly.”
“Friendly.” Tristan said it like he was testing each syllable, deciding how he liked the taste on his tongue.
“Yes. And, speaking of being friendly, I have a project I’d like your help with.”
Tristan slotted the plates into the drying rack and turned towards her, a question on his face.
“Don’t look so worried. You’re going to have fun.”
“Am I?”
Tessa wanted to laugh at how uncertain he sounded, but didn’t think it would be fair. Especially given what he was wearing. And what they were about to do. Instead, she picked up two neatly-folded aprons off the counter and tossed one at him. He grabbed it from the air before it hit him in the chest. “You’re gonna want to put that on.”
Tristan watched her tie hers around her waist before doing the same with his own. Tessa felt his eyes follow her as she moved around the kitchen, studying every move she made. She let the silence drag as she got everything into place. Finished, she leaned against the counter and smiled wide.
“Come. No time to waste.”
“What is that?” Tristan pointed at the large metal bowl draped with a kitchen towel that Tessa had pulled from an unused oven.
“Dough.”
“Like, for bread?”
“Exactly like.”
“What are we going to do with it?” Tristan stood behind her and eyed the pale mass that Tessa pulled from the greased bowl and dumped on the flour-dusted counter.
“Tristan,” she spat out with a laugh. “What do you think we’re doing with it? We’re making bread.”
His chest was so close to her back she felt him humph.
“I don’t remember kitchen labor being a prerequisite for our date.”
Tessa froze, her fingers half-sunk into the spongy mass. “And I don’t remember calling this a date.”
Tristan backed up fast, a cool gush of air fanning across her neck in his absence. “I just mean—” he stumbled.
Why did the nerves in his voice make her want to turn around and wrap her arms around him? This man was an enigma. Distant and dark one second, flustered and, well, only a little bit less dark the next.
Doesn’t matter, Tessa. You’re not here to think about climbing up the hulking man. You’re here to help distract him, even just a little from whatever weight has him curled so tight he might crack right here on your nice, clean floor.
“Don’t worry about it. Just come here.” She patted the spot next to her, dislodging a small cloud of flour into the air.
Tessa portioned out the dough into four equal sections. She placed one in front of Tristan, a second in front of herself, and draped the remaining two in the towel.
“Hands,” she demanded, holding hers palm up so he’d know what to do. After a split-second hesitation, Tristan mirrored her. Careful not to linger, she pulled them above the counter and dusted his wide palms and long fingers with flour. She wasn’t trying to study them, hadn’t planned on cataloguing the span from pinky to thumb, or the elegant curve each finger made, reaching up from pronounced calluses. His swept-back hair and freshly-pressed shirt made him look polished, but his hands told a different story. A rugged one. They told her that he knew how to work the body he kept so carefully controlled. Whether pulling himself through the ocean waves or helping the crew haul support beams into place, his hands knew what it was to work.
Just think what they’d be like working you….
Tessa shook the flour a little too hard and some blew up into her face. She coughed, waving it away. When it cleared, she found Tristan giving her an odd look.
“I’m fine,” she sputtered before pulling his hands to the dough. “Let’s get started.”
Tristan looked at the dough, then at her, then back at the dough, the groove between his eyes sharpening. “What am I supposed to do with it?”
“Knead it.”
Tristan stared a little harder at his hands. “Knead it?” His voice was tighter, too.
“Watch.” Palms down, she used the heels of her hands to push the soft mass forward, curling her fingers around the top and turning the whole thing slightly before bringing the elongated ball towards her and starting the process over. Tessa could feel Tristan watching her. She glanced up and found him completely focused on her hands, memorizing each movement.
His hand, the one closest to her, flexed. She’d seen him do that before he pressed it to the back of his neck. This time, though, he brought it, then the other, to his ball of dough and started working it.
His first few attempts were clumsy. He pushed down too hard and the dough jumped forward, the flour spraying backwards onto his waist. He dug his fingers too deep and the spongy material squelched up between them. He groaned when it stuck to his skin and Tessa giggled as she helped him pull it free.
The giggling stopped when he studied her face, his eyes sweeping from her hairline down to her chin, then back up to watch her lips as she applied another dusting of flour to his hands.
“Try again,” she instructed, her voice not as steady as she would’ve liked.
His next two tries were much better. After a few more laughs from her, and a few more grunts from him, Tristan was getting closer. But it wasn’t quite right.
When he growled in frustration, Tessa stopped him, placing her fingers on top of his. “Not quite so hard,” she explained. She pulled out a new ball of dough, one that hadn’t been kneaded into a tough, floury mess. “Do it with me.”
His hands were twice the size of hers, but she felt them go lax beneath her touch, waiting for her to guide him.
Slowly, she pressed her palms down, sinking his hands into the dough. The
y moved forward, gently, the slide soft but not too light.
“That’s it,” she murmured. “You don’t want to be too hard, it makes the dough tough. But if you’re too soft, you don’t get the right effect.”
“The right effect?” Tristan’s breath tickled the side of her face, warm and tempting with just a hint of wine.
“Yes,” she breathed out, pulling their joint grip back to start again. “We’re working the proteins together. Tangling them up.”
The fingers on one of Tessa’s hands slipped between Tristan’s, getting caught between the long stretch of his and the dough beneath.
She thought he might have said something. Thought she felt it where his chest was pressed against her side. But there was no way she was going to look at him to find out. Not when his face was so close to hers.
Together, they folded their fingers around the top of the dough, spread it out and worked it back, the surface becoming smoother and smoother after every pass. Somehow, on the next push, one of Tessa’s hands ended up completely beneath Tristan's.
He pushed down, gentle but firm, his calluses causing sharp jolts of energy to jump from her knuckles to her shoulders, then lower, settling in her breasts. Tessa took a deep breath, hoping it would help the tightness where her nipples pressed against her bra.
It only made it worse.
“The tangling,” Tristan prompted, his voice little more than a groan, his eyes locked on the joint movement of their hands. “What does that do?”
“It—” Tessa stopped talking, helpless to do anything but watch as Tristan moved so that now both her hands were caught between his and the dough. The contrast had her body humming. The soft give and slide beneath, the rough yet gentle pressure of his hot skin above. It took a second before she realized he’d stopped moving, their intertwined fingers frozen as he waited for her to respond. “It stretches the dough out, smoothing it.” Push forward, curl. “Allows air in.” Pull back, press, push again.
Tristan turned so his nose brushed her cheek, his lips grazing her ear before he whispered, “Then what happens?”
Tessa’s fingers flexed and Tristan’s followed, then spanned wide, holding her still. A sensation raced through Tessa, her limbs loosening as if it was her muscles they’d been kneading, her body they’d been coaxing into submission. Her head was heavy, her neck too relaxed to hold it up. It was tipping back, her eyes falling shut, as she managed to drag out the answer. “If you’ve done it right, it will rise.”