She pinched herself again.
Aiden Fierce was not shadowing her.
He didn’t just say that, did he?
Why would he want to know her cannoli recipe? He had to have made them a million times. There was nothing special about hers.
Yet she felt the pain when she squeezed the skin between her fingers and knew that he’d be over to watch her once she was done lining up her ingredients.
Everyone in the kitchen had looked her way at one point or another, wanting to know what was going on. Why on her second day—as a part-timer at this point—she wasn’t learning her job but moving to a side corner by herself. She wasn’t saying a word.
She was so used to not drawing attention to herself, and right now, she’d pretty much had the curtain lifted and was ready to perform for all expectant eyes…naked. Exposed. Yeah, she was looking for a fast exit, but she couldn’t run. She had to stay and do what was asked of her.
There was an area off to the side that looked to be set up for baking. No one had addressed this with her yet, nor did she see anyone there yesterday. “Do you have a baker on staff?” she asked Aiden.
“Not like you think. I’ve got someone that comes in during the week and prepares desserts. She makes more on Friday to cover us for the weekend, or someone else on staff that has a good hand at baking is assigned to come in before the restaurant menu starts and prepares a few dishes.
“What do you do in the pub for dessert on those days?” she asked, lining up everything and trying to block out all the stares in their direction.
“Not too many desserts get ordered in the pub. We have simple things, sundaes and the like. Remaining desserts from the day before. Nothing lasts more than twenty-four hours before we rotate to fresh things. I refuse to have anything bought or frozen, but we have enough hands here that something fresh is made daily by someone.”
Once everything was ready to go, she was sifting her dry ingredients together when she felt Aiden’s breath behind her. She really had to start paying more attention to her surroundings. What was he doing now?
“Wouldn’t it be easier if you were standing next to me, or in front of me?” she asked, her voice cracking.
This was embarrassing. Should she be feeling heat in places of her body that had no business warming up right now? She looked down and noticed her hands were shaking. Heaven forbid he saw that.
Maybe he’d think it was nerves. Yeah, that’d be better than him knowing it was because he was standing so close to her and turning her on. Urgh, why was this happening to her?
“I like to see it from your view. You’re short; I can see over your head.”
She wanted to be insulted over his short comment but was too busy trying to push all her hormones in line and focus on the task at hand and not the hot boss standing behind her. She tried to ignore the fact that her body was betraying her and concentrate more on her baking. It wasn’t working.
What a sucky predicament. A hot man behind her and all he cared about was the ingredients on the table in front of her. That sound was her ego deflating.
Then she reminded herself that she had a job and didn’t want a man in her life anyway. Right? Yeah, sure. No man. Not now. Not her boss!
She leaned forward to grab the sugar and her rear bumped into him. Really? She didn’t even want to guess what she just touched, but unfortunately was pretty positive she knew. A glance up showed more eyes on them. Was there a hole for her to crawl in yet?
“Sorry about that,” she mumbled.
“No reason to apologize. I’m weird, I know that.”
“Huh?” What did he mean by that?
“I like to see how something is being made from every angle. If I didn’t think you’d jump out of your skin, I’d mirror your hands right now.”
Oh God, please don’t do that. “That is definitely weird.” But comments like that were best kept to herself. Along with her wandering thoughts of how his hands might feel on hers.
Until he laughed, she hadn’t realized she’d said that out loud, that he was definitely weird. “Sorry, didn’t mean to say that,” she said, mortification crawling like spiders up her back.
“It’s fine. I hear it from my brothers all the time. I’m weirder than most, but not as weird as many really think.”
She had no clue what he was talking about now, but there was laughter in his voice so she figured it was fine. She continued to work on the dough, then placed it in the blast chiller to speed up the chilling process. Just this morning she’d had to use an old freezer at her grandmother’s. All these tools were like a dream to her.
“Do you always make the basic recipe first?”
“Yes. I always make the basic, and then the chocolate one. There’s no reason for it, but I think it’s just the one I learned first, so it’s what I do. We have a cinnamon one with dried fruit in the filling, but it wasn’t in the store often. I didn’t think you’d want that one today, right?”
He nodded like he understood, but she figured he probably thought she was a little odd herself. “Sounds like a good holiday one, but not right now.”
Once she was done with the chocolate dough, she checked out the first one and decided to take it out and move to the next step. Anything to get this over with and get the eyes off of them. Or his strong male presence away from her. What a distraction. Heaven forbid she mess this up because she was sidetracked. That would be an embarrassment to her family roots.
She started to roll the dough out and then pulled it through the pasta roller again and again until it was the desired thickness. Then she cut the shape and wrapped it around a metal tube to be dropped in the fryer.
He was standing in front of her now, so she shifted her eyes up, caught them on her, a brief smile, and an even briefer surge of heat through her body.
“How long do you fry them for?”
“Two to three minutes. I watch them for the right color more than anything. All oils are different, so until I know the first batch is good, I watch them carefully.”
“Show me, then I’ll keep frying them while you make more.”
They worked in silence, an assembly line of sorts, and, thankfully, it seemed fewer eyes were on them now. Or maybe it was wishful thinking on her part.
Once all the shells were done, she set them aside and started to mix her filling. “We don’t have to fill all the shells now. Maybe I can just do a quarter of them before desserts start being served. Then if they aren’t going fast, you can fill them as needed and they’ll be fresh tomorrow. The shells store for a long time in the freezer if you don’t use them all.”
“That sounds like a good plan. Show me the filling recipe now, and then we’ll make a few and have a tasting for the waitstaff. If they know how it tastes, they can sell it better while describing the desserts. Then I’m going to update the special menu quick and reprint for the day.”
***
Aiden wasn’t oblivious to the stares he and Nic were getting, but he didn’t care.
All he cared about was that pastries were never his thing. He tried, but could never master them the way he wanted. It was a bitter pill for someone who held himself so high on a scale that he couldn’t be the best at everything.
But those cannoli that Nic brought in this morning were something straight off the boat. The same as the simple but delicious meal she cooked during her interview.
You didn’t need high-end schooling or training to deliver results like she had. Those came from the heart. From the soul. From the very air she was breathing. Not many had that talent.
Did he know she was nervous right now? Sure. Did he care? Not in the least.
This wasn’t about her. It was about him. It was about him mastering his craft to the level that he always wanted to achieve.
He wasn’t using her; he wasn’t doing anything other than being taught something he was dying to know. It wasn’t like he knew the exact recipe; he wouldn’t ask that. But he wanted to watch her technique for the moment.
He could cook and create anything. But he couldn’t always taste his own food and feel like he was transported. He tasted Nic’s and that was exactly how he felt. How he felt those years he sought out the best recipes and tastes while he traveled the world.
So while he knew she was nervous and that he was doing this for himself, he was also doing it for her.
She had some serious untapped skill levels and it seemed when she started cooking those hometown favorites, the things she grew up with, she found her groove and shut the rest of the world out while she created.
He wanted her to find that confidence, and if showing him something—if teaching him something—gave it to her, then so be it.
Only, it seemed to be backfiring for some reason.
“Why is everyone staring at us?” she whispered.
“Jealousy,” he said, then watched as she tested the cream in the bowl.
She grabbed a spoon and put some on it, then handed it to him. “Why are they jealous of me?”
She had no clue, it seemed, and he let it go for now. Better to protect her and let her just cook.
He shrugged, then put the filling in his mouth, shut his eyes, and savored the assault on his senses. The creamy texture on his tongue, the hint of vanilla, strong enough to know it was there, but not enough to overpower. And something else. “Lemon?” he asked.
“Just a touch. It brightens it up. Too much? Most people can never taste that and I very rarely use it.”
He could pick flavor out of anything, blindfolded. “I can.” He glanced over and saw the sliced lemon on the counter. He didn’t remember putting it there.
She must have followed his eyes. “I grabbed it when you were at the fryer. I wasn’t sure how much I’d need, but since I was making so much, I feared it’d be heavy.”
“Why put it in today, if you rarely do? The quantity you’re making shouldn’t make a difference.”
Her cheeks got slightly pink. “Would it surprise you to know that I don’t use it when making it at home? I go by taste. By the quality of the ingredients. I’ve never used this brand of ricotta before and it’s different than what I’m used to. Than what I used at home or even in the bakery.”
“What brand do you use?” he asked.
She looked away, then said, “We don’t buy it.”
“You make your own ricotta. Those cannoli you brought over had homemade ricotta in them?” Yeah, this girl was straight Italian to the bone. She had red sauce pumping through her veins. How did he get so lucky to have her land in his kitchen? He was talking about her cooking, right? Sure he was. When did he become a master at lying to himself?
“Yeah. It’s cheaper.”
“Better,” he said, not wanting her to feel any embarrassment over that because her face was turning a deep hue of pink now. “Not cheaper when you factor in the time.”
“True. Definitely better. But I put the lemon in when making the ricotta, so I don’t normally need it like I did just now.”
“Homemade ricotta the next time you make these.”
“Next time?” she asked.
“Yeah. These are going to fly out the door, even with store-bought ricotta,” he said, laughing loudly, drawing attention to them. He knew these things, and he was positive about this.
He followed her glance across the room to see interested eyes, then whispered, “Does that bother you?”
“A little. More like it makes me uncomfortable.”
“Don’t be. You’ve got serious talent and you should be proud.”
“I am. But I’m more than Italian.”
He turned to her and looked in her eyes, saw the uncertainty and concern. “Embrace what you are and what makes you so good. Don’t try to focus on anything else.”
“I’m not,” she argued.
He could see he hit a nerve. “That came out wrong. What I mean is that this is in your blood. And while I, for one, love expanding my talents, and I encourage others to, you’ve got a gift here and you should share it. Thank you for sharing it with me,” he said softly, trying to remember the last time he’d thanked someone for that. Years ago, when he was learning his craft.