“I’m not sure why you’re angry with me,” he said, eyeing me flirtatiously over the rim of his glass, like we were back at The Foggy Goggle.
“Because I am,” was my very mature response.
I was in no mood for his charms. Even if I couldn’t stop picturing his head on the pillow beside mine. Our foreheads pressed together while his heart beat against my chest.
Damn it. Why had I picked that exact moment to become the spontaneous type?
Because I thought for sure I would never see this tiny mountain town or this gorgeous man ever again.
“Well, then how can I make amends?” Charles leaned against the opposite side of the island from me, with those eyes like a lock-picker’s kit. He’d never met a door they couldn’t open. And now I sort of hated them.
“Leave Maplewood Creek and don’t come back ’til I’m gone?” I offered hopefully.
“Let’s put a pin in that idea.”
“Then how about leaving my kitchen?”
Charles arched an eyebrow. “It’s your kitchen now, huh?”
I sighed, wiping a flour-covered hand across my forehead again. “Take a look around. Do I seem a little in the shit at the moment?”
I was thoroughly exasperated. At my absolute wits’ end.
Appraising me, he straightened up, concern sobering his expression. “What’s the problem?”
“Amelia said you both love chocolate croissants, so I promised to have some ready for tomorrow. Only my dough isn’t cooperating. I’ve been at this for hours and everything’s gone wrong. I can’t figure it out.”
“What are they supposed to look like?” He inspected the wad of abused dough.
“Puffy. If you poke it with your finger, it should bounce back. I’ve made these dozens of times, but something’s gone horribly wrong.”
“You’ve got an altitude problem,” he said.
“Are you trying to be funny?”
Charles held his hands up in surrender. “Happens all the time up here. A, uh, former employee who worked here a long time ago taught me that baking is tricky at this altitude. Less oxygen, lower air pressure. It messes with the dough.”
I scoffed. “I’m from Colorado. It’s never happened to me before. I make these all the time in Denver.”
“We’re at almost 11,000 feet above sea level,” he said. “That’s double that of Denver.”
“Shit. You’re right,” I said, deflating.
I’d spent two hours killing myself over these damn croissants and it’d never occurred to me I might have to tweak the recipe. I thought exhaustion had made me delirious. I slumped against the counter.
“We can fix it,” he said.
My eyes lifted to his. Something about the soft sincerity in his voice grabbed me. Like he had reached out his hand to pull me from rising waters, I could breathe again, the frustration and exhaustion dissipating with his calm encouragement.
“Yeah?” I said, enjoying his use of the word “we” far too much.
His smile was immediate. “Like you said, they’re my favorite.”
Smothering a grin, I swept the bad dough into the garbage.
“Okay,” I breathed, trying to tamp down the giddiness that was rolling through me. “If you don’t mind, I really could use the help.”
“Yes, chef.” He went to the sink and washed his hands, shooting me a wink over his shoulder.
