Page 3 of Kylie’s Kakes

The bechamel was fighting me again.

I had four burners going at The Starred Skillet, with each one holding a different ratio of the same recipe. And not a single one of them was doing what it did in my restaurant kitchen.

Back in Manhattan, I could make this sauce with my eyes closed, six gallons at a time. And it came out silky smooth every time. But scaling it down for a home cook who was making dinner for their family just wasn’t working. My math was wrong. Or chemistry. Or just my hazy brain. I didn’t know where the problem was, but it was too thick in one pot. Too thin in another. The cream had broken in the back left pot, and my last hope had actual lumps in it.

Dammit.

That was the whole problem with writing a cookbook after fifteen years of running a restaurant kitchen. My instincts were built for volume. I was used to having access to walk-ins that were stocked to the ceiling with the finest ingredients and six line cooks moving in sync. I didn’t know how to cook alone in a normal-sized kitchen with a normal-sized pot anymore.

Every recipe I attempted had to be deconstructed and recalculated from scratch. And even after that, the bechamel was still not cooperating after three weeks of various experiments.

"You're beating it like it’s been a bad girl." Magda chuckled from the doorway, looking up at me from over the top of her clipboard.

"It has been. Trust me." But the analogy didn’t really work because I wasn’t a disciplinarian. Unless my girl begged me to spank her, I was usually more of a gentle Daddy. But you wouldn’t know that by the way I was breaking a sweat over this damn sauce. “I don’t know why it’s not working.”

"It's flour and butter, Jordan. It’s not that hard." Magda had owned a restaurant with her ex-husband for years.

Now I was lucky enough to have her managing my commercial kitchen so I could focus on my passion. Which I thought was gonna be writing a cookbook, but I was becoming less passionate and more pissed off by the second. "It's flour and butter that used to respect me."

She snorted and kept walking. That pretty much summed up our whole relationship at this point. I specifically asked her not to treat me any different than the other people renting kitchen time here. That meant no fussing or extra attention just because my name had been on a restaurant marquee for a decade. Technically, I also owned the building, but she was the only one who knew that, and I wanted to keep it that way.

I dumped all the pots and started again from scratch. I was going for a cold roux and gave it my full attention for exactly nine minutes before I admitted defeat. Again. My manuscript deadline was fast approaching, and my editor didn’t give a shit that a sauce which had never once given me trouble in the past was suddenly impossible. Was this what the yips felt like? Did I have the yips?

Fuck, I needed a break.

I washed up and grabbed my jacket off the hook. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

"The Bean Box?" Magda didn’t even look up as I passed by her. It had become a routine she'd clocked a while ago.

"Yeah, I need some actual coffee and fresh air."

"Mm-hmm." I couldn’t see it but I could definitely hear the smirk in her voice. "Say hi to your barista."

I rolled my eyes, and my heart started to beat a little faster. "She's not my barista." Yet.

"Yet." Dammit, Magda. Stop reading my mind.

I didn't bother with a response because I didn’t like to lie.

The Bean Box was four minutes away if I walked fast, which I always did. I told myself I was passing by three other coffee shops because the Bean Box coffee was so superior. But that was mostly bullshit. It was good, but that wasn’t the full truth.

I mean, it was true that the house I was renting only had a hotplate and a pod brewer that couldn't make anything worth drinking. But it was also true that I had access to a top-of-the-line espresso machine at the kitchen.

What I wasn’t willing to admit to Magda or even myself was that I'd been going to that particular shop for weeks because of the blonde barista who worked there.

She was sweet and beautiful, and after the first few times I saw her, my coffee habit had somehow become more of an obsession that rearranged itself around her schedule.

I told myself it was a coincidence the first few times I saw her there, but I didn’t bother trying to justify my actions anymore. I was grown, and I could go to any damn coffee shop I wanted.

The bell over the door chimed when I walked in, and she looked up and smiled. Just like I hoped she would.

She stepped back from wiping down the espresso machine and smiled. "Hey, stranger." Something in my chest always puffed up when I saw her. It seemed to be in equal relation to something tightening in my pants. "Your usual?"

"You remembered?" That was hot AF.

"I remember everyone's order. It's kinda my whole job." She winked as she reached for a cup and wrote my name on the side. "Jordan with a large oat milk, extra shot.”

“Wow.” I loved the sound of my name on her tongue. “You’re good.”