CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I didn’t change his mind, not that day or any of the dates that followed. One rock climbing class, a kayaking adventure, and a salsa lesson under our belts, and the man still managed to surprise me. He was also this close to losing his date-planning privileges.
I peered out my front window, watching him pocket his keys as he came up the drive. He was dressed casually in jeans and a hunter-green button-down that made me grin. Ever since I’d commented that wearing green brought out the colors in his eyes, that color had popped up in his attire quite a bit. In fact, he’d been wearing it so much, I was starting to think he started for the Jets. I saw my grinning reflection in the window pane and the smile slowly faded.
I would get rid of this odd crush. That was all it was. Just a little crush. Not like we fainted every time we touch. Thank you, Jennifer Paige. My brief trip to the nineties over, I headed for the door. I would let him in. I wouldn’t be drawn in by those big, gorgeous eyes or that aw-shucks messy hair, or that crooked grin that made him look like he’d just done something very bad. Or was about to.
Arriving at our destination certainly helped me shake some of that crush feeling. I glanced up at the exterior of the building. “Baking.” I looked at Jackson doubtfully. “Us?”
I looked back at the candy-striped sign of the Sweet Stuff bakery. The blue and pink striped sign was adorned with a giant, frosted cupcake, as if to assure me the shop was harmless. I knew better. I could follow the directions on a Duncan Heinz box like nobody’s business, but I didn’t think we’d be doing anything quite that simple.
I sent him a doubtful look. “You and I aren’t exactly known for our prowess in the kitchen.”
“I’m pretty sure we’ll be fully supervised.” He grinned. “And they’re insured.”
He took my hand and began towing me toward the building. After a few hesitant steps, I followed. By the time we got close enough to smell anything, I was the one in the lead…which just went to show chocolate was one hell of an incentive.
I always thought bakeries were a little like Disney World—everything so brightly colored, overly happy, and absolutely perfect. This shop was no different, all glass and pinks and blues. The treats in the display so perfect they didn’t even look real. Once we really got past the entrance, I could pick up other scents under the delicious chocolate—hazelnut, butter, and sugar.
As I migrated toward the treat case, moth-to-flame style, Jackson grabbed my arm. “Not another step, Winters. We’re here to bake, not eat.”
I turned to him, eyes wide. “We can’t buy a few?”
“Well…yes, but we’re baking first.”
I was absolutely going to hold him to that. I cast one last look at the treat case and followed him through the shop to the glass partitioned kitchen.
“Hi there!” A woman in a blue and white striped apron greeted us at the doors. “Welcome to Sweet Stuff, you guys!”
I was almost blinded by her bubbly, blonde perfection, and took a step back. Since I was pretty sure people couldn’t be that happy in real life, I was wishing I’d brought a net. Then I could capture her and send her back to the anime game she clearly escaped from.
“I’m so glad you made it,” she trilled. “You’re here for the chocolate class, right? We were waiting for the last couple to arrive. You must be Jackson!”
“Yes,” he answered, his hand on the small of my back. He scooted me forward an inch. “This is Avery.” If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was using me as a shield. “I know we’re a few minutes late, but we got a bit turned around on the highway.”
Her bright gaze flickered over me briefly before returning to her prize. “Don’t worry about it, Jackson.” She touched his arm, her hand lingering.
Ah, so that’s how it’s going to be. I rolled my eyes. Just once, I’d like to go someplace where someone didn’t try to hit on that man. I understood, because…well, look at him. But still. “I’m sorry we’re late, too,” I said loudly.
She blinked. “Of course. Um, why don’t you guys follow me? I know Chef DuPont is eager to get started.”
And eager he was. He glared at us from beneath bushy gray eyebrows as we sidled to our station. Chef DuPont was a very French, very talented, very angry chef, who clearly wished he were someplace else. Probably some fancy pants patisserie, and not teaching eight clueless couples how to make various chocolate desserts. Apparently being five minutes late to his Sweet Treats for Your Sweet class was an offense worthy of getting thrown in the Bastille.
I eyed the array of specialty chocolate ingredients on our cutting board, but I kept my hands tucked behind my back. I had to ignore the temptation. Stealing a white chocolate nib would probably be worthy of the guillotine.
“I am Chef DuPont,” he announced, not waiting for the din of chatter to die down. “You will be making several simple desserts today. If you pay careful attention, you will be able to replicate these dishes in your own kitchen.” He clapped his hands. “We shall begin learning how to temper chocolate properly, and move straight into our first dessert—a rich, dark chocolate mousse.”
“Mousse?” I repeated out of the corner of my mouth, much to Jackson’s amusement. “That’s supposed to be a simple dessert?”
“Shh,” he hushed me. “You’re going to get us in trouble.”
“You’re the one who wanted to take cooking lessons from Mr. French Revolution over there.”
His mouth twitched. “Well, you get to plan the next date.”
“Oh, that’ll be a cinch.” I already had so many ideas, I forgot to remind him that we weren’t dating. Maybe we’d go to the movies first, and then dinner. I’d been wanting to go to this Greek restaurant downtown…
“And no restaurant, movies, or clubbing. Something different.”
Damn. “I’ll still come up with something,” I assured him.
“Silence!” Chef DuPont cried, and we both jumped. “The chocolate tempers better with silence!”
Sweet Jesus. With wide eyes, we watched the temperamental chef melt the temperamental chocolate. Jackson’s date planning privileges were definitely revoked.
*
As I tasted our fourth completed dessert, a stacked chocolate crepe thing, I closed my eyes with bliss. There was definitely a method to DuPont’s madness. Wonder of wonders, while the last dessert baked, we got to talk to our partners. Quietly.
I leaned over and sank my fork into Jackson’s stacked crepe. I took a bite and made a face. “Mmm. I think you did something wrong. It’s a tad salty.”
He glared, giving his white chocolate sauce a vigorous stir. “That’s why you have your own. And watch your sauce. We’re supposed to be stirring almost constantly.”
“What Chef DuPont doesn’t know won’t kill me.” I took another bite of his salty crepes. They were starting to grow on me. “You never did tell me why you’re such a terrible cook.”
He grinned. “This is your version of small talk?”
“It’s called getting to know one another. I hear people do it all the time.”
He rounded his eyes. “So that thing we did last night in the shower? What was that?”
“That was me getting to know your balls. Not you.” I smacked him in the shoulder. “Now spill.”
“As long as you know I don’t give answers without getting some.”
“What else is there to know about me? You’ve seen me at my worst. My family. The craziness. And whatever tidbits Julian has told you…which are not true, by the way.”
“Which part?”
“Any of it,” I assured him.
He grinned. “I’ll have you know I never had to learn to cook. We had someone come in once a week to prepare meals for us at home. In boarding school and then college, I didn’t really have a kitchen. By the time I got a place of my own, the die was cast. And now I’m the master of heat and eat. What’s your excuse?”
Damn, nothing quite that comprehensive. “I don’t really have one. Both of my parents cooked. Of us kids, Art was always the genius in the kitchen. That left me trying to find my genius in other areas.” I grinned. “I’m still looking.”
“What about electronics? You can pretty much fix anything with a motherboard.”
“It’s something I’m good at and decided to run with. I’m a jack of all trades—good at a lot of things, but great at none.”
He sent me a crooked smile before looking back down at his sauce. “Guess it depends on who you ask.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. So I said nothing. I watched him laboring over his sauce, forehead creased in concentration, and felt an…inexplicable sense of fondness for him. He’d gone through a lot of trouble to make our date special, and no one had ever really done that for me before. It made me feel…kind of special.
I finally had to stop lying to myself. Right then and there in Chef DuPont’s kitchen o’doom.
I zoomed past the casual zone a long time ago.
We may not use labels like boyfriend and girlfriend, but we were certainly acting like it. I sighed. It went beyond our dates. Sometimes I went over his house, and sometimes he came to mine. And when he was gone, I mostly spent my time trying to figure out who the heck he was spending time with when he wasn’t with me. I liked being with him. Talking to him. Laughing with him…calling our relationship casual at this point would be…well, delusional.
I was practically Minnie Ripperton, singing “Lovin’ You” while floating on a pond full of lily pads.
When I talked to Lane about it, she suggested that I find maybe I could overcome my issues about relationships by finding myself. Some crap she’d found in Cosmo about being a healthy single before you become part of a successful duo. Well, I’d found myself. Repeatedly. Put a pin on myself for Google maps. I knew exactly who I was…and I was starting to know exactly what I wanted. I just didn’t know if I was willing to risk the inevitable hurt to get it.
I cleared my throat. “So that’s all you have to say about my awful cooking?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I get it. I’m supposed to say something judgmental so you can hate me, right?” He smiled smugly. “Nice try. You’re just going to have to keep on liking me.”
“Don’t get too smug. I like ABBA and boy bands, too. My taste is pretty questionable.”
“Your chocolate sauce looks gritty,” he said loudly, and Chef DuPont’s head swung around like an animal spotting prey in the jungle. That beady gaze narrowed in on me.
I swallowed, putting down my crepe fork. As DuPont stormed toward our station, I stirred that sauce like my life depended on it, sending Jackson a meaningful glare. If I was allowed to live, I was going to tell DuPont about someone’s salty ass crepes.