Page 42 of The Last Autograph
“Would you like an apron?”
“Why? Are you going to put me to work?”
“I might let you do a little piping.”
Jake reached under the counter and pulled out a neatly folded apron. The scent of cinnamon, vanilla, and—as he moved closer—sexy male floated on the breeze from the open window by the back door. It took her back to that first day of the bake-off when Jake lingered a little too long at her station. Now, that unique cologne would forever remain his signature scent.
So much had changed since then, and as Jake stood behind her and slipped the apron over her head, Molly held her breath. How curious her life had become as she’d inadvertently entangled herself with Jesse’s twin.
Still standing behind her, Jake secured the ties around her waist, his breath a whisper against her neck as Molly stood perfectly still. For a moment, she longed for him to brush asideher hair and caress her nape—that zone of zones where the effect would be immediate and overwhelming.
However, the desired contact failed to transpire, and rightly so.
Instead, Jake moved to the counter and began cracking eggs into a bowl. He looked up, his expression relaxed, then cleared his throat as he broke eye contact. “Okay, the secret to making a sexy choux is the mixture must be graceful and silky. So don’t be afraid to eyeball it. Sometimes, an extra egg can make all the difference to the end result.”
“Isn’t baking a science, where you stick exactly to the recipe?”
He turned on the cooktop, added butter, sugar, and water to a copper saucepan, and settled it on the heat. “Depends. Never underestimate the art and feel of it. I rely on my gut instinct a lot. Always have.”
“Have you ever had any flops?”
“Of course, but life’s one big experiment, don’t you agree? That’s how we learn.”
“I guess.”
She watched on in fascination as Jake added flour to the butter mixture and whisked it fast and furious while offering tips and instructions like a master class tutor would do. By the end of the process, she better understood his “art and feel”approach. The pastel-lemon choux slipped gracefully off the beaters in silky strands, and as he piped several shells onto a baking sheet, her interest in Jake stepped up a notch.
“May I have a turn?”
“Can I trust you?”
“Probably not. But don’t you enjoy living life dangerously?”
Without missing a beat, he continued to pipe more shells. “Not where beautiful women are concerned.”
Heat crept up Molly’s neck and face. Had he really just said that?
“Here.” He offered the bag as if his statement were inconsequential—an off-the-cuff remark forgotten in an instant.
Flustered, Molly took the bag from him with unsteady hands and twisted the end for a better grip. Jake remained at her side, and after her first two attempts failed, he stepped closer. With his hands covering hers, he gently guided her through the process, so close she could smell the mint on his breath and feel the heat of him.
Excitement built at her core, and when he eventually let go, she closed her eyes briefly against the disappointment of their separation and drew a shaky breath. By contrast, Jake appeared relaxed at her side.
“Try again.” He turned the sheet. “Make sure your speed and pressure work together so each shell’s an even width.”
“Right. Speed and pressure.” Determined to master the task, Molly did as he instructed. When the bag was finally empty, apart from her first few disasters, twenty neat éclair shells sat on the sheet, and she was a nervous wreck. “There. How do they look?”
“Pretty good. Let’s get them into the oven.”
Molly stood and watched Jake set the timer. The more time they spent together, the more attractive he became—not only in looks but also in self-confidence. He’d be the type of man who’d take care of a woman, even if she could take care of herself perfectly fine. And now, whenever they met, he reminded her less and less of his twin.
He stepped closer and brushed a lock of hair away from her face, like the trace of a feather, as he murmured, “Good job.”
If Molly wanted to break the tension, this would have been the right time to do so, but she couldn’t seem to tear herself away from his scrutiny. “Thank you, Chef,” she whispered.
Jake cleared his throat but didn’t release her gaze. “You really should leave now if you know what’s good for you.” He smiled softly, and as he did so, his whole demeanor changed. “And I have to get back to work.”
Hands shaking, Molly fumbled with her apron strings but failed to undo the knot. “Of course. Sorry to hold you up.”
