“You need less yeast and more liquid,” he said. “The altitude dries things out, makes them behave differently.”
“I should’ve thought of that. I’m seriously kicking myself.” I gathered another batch of ingredients to make a final attempt at this dough, then set up the stand mixer. “Croissants are a few steps more advanced than mac and cheese. Who did you say taught you how to bake?”
He had a faraway look in his eyes while he dried his hands. “A friend from a long time ago. When I was a kid. Anyway. Where do you need me?”
There was an ease to our conversation. Even the way we moved around one another in the kitchen seemed effortless. I placed the recipe in the center of the island, and we took turns adding the ingredients to the mixing bowl in order, ensuring that we cut back on the yeast and added a little more milk. In the mixer, the dough pulled away from the sides of the bowl just as it should.
“I think this one’s a winner,” I told him. “Thank you. I was really at the end of my rope there for a minute.”
“Lucky I came along.” He bumped my shoulder playfully. “What’s next?”
“The fun part.”
From the fridge I took several sticks of high-fat Irish butter and lined them up together between a couple of sheets of parchment paper. Then I took out a large rolling pin.
“That’s not for me, is it?” He pretended to shrink away when I raised it over the island where my butter waited.
“Not unless you piss me off,” I laughed.
I started beating the butter until it began to form a flat, even sheet.
“Remind me not to get on your bad side,” he said, watching the slight joy I took in the noisy violence. Truthfully, I needed the catharsis.
We had to wait a while for the dough to rise and cool in the fridge, so I took the glass of wine he’d left waiting and rewarded myself with a large gulp.
“So . . .” he said, sliding up next to me to lean back against the island. His forearm brushed mine and sent little shivers across my skin. “How are you getting on so far?”
I gave him a sideways glance. “Other than a mild pastry meltdown?”
“Other than that.”
“Yeah, great,” I said. “Couldn’t be better.”
Charles shook his head. “You’ve got kind of a sarcastic streak, don’t you?”
“No,” I said with sarcastic exaggeration.
He bit back a laugh. “Uh-huh. What else should I know about you?”
“What do you mean, what else? Like, can I juggle flaming swords and balance a poodle on my nose?”
“For starters,” he said. “Sure.”
I sighed and lifted myself to sit on the edge of the counter. “Well, I have a scar from the time I caught a stray hockey puck to the shin at the rec center in fifth grade. I can’t stand it when people call it ‘expresso.’ And I have a strict rule against sleeping with my employers.” I flashed an accusing smirk at Charles. “Your turn.”
I wanted to ask him why his return had the whole town talking. My imagination conjured up all sorts of scenarios that could earn a handsome man like this a “reputation.” Then I remembered Amelia’s reaction to my prodding, and decided it was better to keep my curiosity to myself.
His brow furrowed as he nodded to himself, thinking. “Hmm. Let’s see. I also have a scar and I’m not going to tell you where. I love saying ‘expresso.’ And in my defense, I have an otherwise spotless record with regards to inter-office liaisons.”
“You think you’re being funny right now, but you’re not.”
“Alright,” he said, straightening. “Let me have it.”
“How could you not have said something sooner?” I accused, my voice rising with a renewed vigor.
“Say what? We’re hardly the only family on this mountain employing a private chef. How was I supposed to know?”
“Still, you could’ve warned me. Like, hey, I’m one of those fancy well-to-dos and wouldn’t it be crazy if you were serving my meals tomorrow?”
