Page 30 of The Likelihood Of You

“So… what are we baking then?”

His use of the word ‘we’ sets off the panic alarms in my brain. “Oh, no…you don’t have to do anything. I’ll just whip up what I can super fast and then bring them out for you to try. I’ll shout you when everything’s ready.”

I bend down to grab the bag of ingredients beside my feet and pull it up onto the counter, arranging the bags of flour and baking soda one by one, only stopping when I feel that familiar burn on my face.

I look up to see Jacob staring at me, like I’d offended him somehow. “What?” I laughed.

He stares at me for a hot minute before he smiles again, those lips parting and two identical dimples brightening up the room. “I want to help you, Florence. You asked for my help, so I’m gonna help.”

Before I can insist that offering up his kitchen, taste buds, and honest opinions is more than enough help, he strides over to me, a new butterfly taking flight in my stomach with each step he takes, and starts unloading the bag on the counter.

“Are you sure?” I ask, too overwhelmed to look at him.

“Of course, I’m sure. Now what are we making?”

I push the doubts back into their holding cell, pull the now empty bag off the counter, and move it over by the door, joining him by the worktop shortly after and finding my recipe sheets. “I thought I’d start with a Bakewell Tart. Ever heard of it?”

“Can’t say I have.” He replied, with a weird look in his eye.

“I think you’ll like them, so long as you like cherries and pastry.”

“Sounds great.” He says, clasping his hands together, and we get started.

This part felt effortless. The wooden spoon in my hand and the spilt flour on the counter from when I weighed it were all familiar. Having a tea and tear-stained recipe sheet propped up in front of me felt right. Which made my nerves float away like they’d never been there.

Once I whipped up a shortcrust pastry, moulded it into the muffin tins, and slotted them in the oven, I started the filing.Wedid, I shouldsay, because Jacob was still next to and helping, even though he didn’t need to.

He was cracking eggs into the mixing bowl when he spoke to me again. “Explain the bakery thing to me. Why do you want to open one?” He asked, turning his body to face me.

“I’ve always been good at it,” I shrug, grabbing the rubber whisk and beating the buttery mixture in front of me. “My parents worked away a lot, so when they were away on business trips, I’d stay with my Nanna; I think I mentioned her when… you know.” He nods. “And we’d just spend our days baking all the recipes she’s gotten from her Grandmother and teach me how to make them.

"And, I don’t know, I think I just fell in love with the feeling of making something so beautiful from scratch, and got drunk on how good it felt when people would eat something I’d made, and their faces would light up.”

I kept my eyes on him while he cracked another egg, with one hand, I might add, which had no right to make me feel as flustered as it did.

“As I got older, I learned that pastries were my strong point, and I tried more complex recipes that made me realise that maybe this was what I was meant for, what I’d always meant to be doing. Does that make sense?”

He shot me another dimple-inducing smile. “Of course it does. That’s how I feel about acting. It feels so natural, like I’m not really putting any effort into it, yet somehow, people seem to love what I do, even though I feel like I’m barely trying. That’s how right it feels.”

It was like he’d found the definition for what I’d been feeling all my life, or what I was trying to pin the weightless feeling as whenever I sat in front of an oven, my face all golden from the light inside as Iwatched whatever I was making puff up and sparkle. It felt so right that sometimes I wondered if I was really doing it.

Like a dream.

“Exactly.” I breathed, which earned me another smile.

Before it distracts me, I flick my attention back to the tart filling, adding the ground almonds to the bowl. “So you always knew you wanted to be an actor, huh?”

“Kind of.” He said, taking the broken eggshells to the bin behind him. “Growing up, my Moms didn’t push me into anything I didn’t immediately love. Like soccer, or football for you, I hated it. Hated actual football, too.” He laughed, which made me realise he was by my side again. “But the second they sent me to drama camp the summer I left eighth grade, I couldn’t get enough of it. Since then, I knew it was what I wanted to do with my life. I never thought I’d make it this big; I don’t think anyone does, but here I am.”

“How do your Moms feel about having their son be so famous? Were they happy for you?”

“They told me they didn’t care what I did so long as I was happy. They supported my career choice when I told them I was applying to colleges for acting, and have followed me every step of the way.” Before I can say how sweet that is, Jacob turns to me and points into the mixing bowl, his voice so casual I almost ignore what he says. “The frangipane needs more flour.”

My whisk stops moving. My lungs come to a halt, too. I don’t even think I can move again until I find out how he even knows what the word ‘frangipane’ means.

“What did you say?” I begged, turning my head towards him and narrowing my eyes so I could barely make out the smug smile on his lips.

“The frangipane… it needs more flour. It’s too wet.” Without giving me any time to react, he edges closer to me, and swipes one of his fingers around the edge of the bowl, scraping up some of the frangipane and sinking it into his mouth.

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