Page 130 of Pack Plus One

His nostrils flare slightly at the sound, but he doesn’t comment, doesn’t push the advantage. Instead, he simply continues rolling with careful concentration, though I don’t miss how he maintains the contact between us.

Between each series of folds and the necessary resting periods, I find myself gravitating between them in a pattern that feels natural but is anything but accidental.

I brush past Mason to reach the refrigerator though there’s plenty of room to go around, my arm sliding against his. His sharp intake of breath is nearly imperceptible, but the warmth that flickers in his normally composed expression tells me everything I need to know.

With Liam, I demonstrate the technique for checking dough elasticity, guiding his hands with mine. His touch is warm and steady, and he maintains the contact a moment longer than necessary, his eyes meeting mine with quiet intensity that makes my pulse quicken.

Jude receives less subtlety. When he makes a particularly terrible pun about “rising to the occasion,” I flick flour at him, laughing at his exaggerated outrage. He retaliates by dabbing a spot of dough on my nose, his fingers lingering a fraction too long against my skin.

“Missed a spot,” he murmurs, voice lower than his usual jovial tone, and wipes it away with his thumb. The simple touch sends a delightful skitter through me.

As I demonstrate the final fold technique, I position myself so that Caleb must stand directly behind me again, his chest pressing my back.

“See how the layers form?” I ask, looking over my shoulder at him. He leans in and our faces are inches apart, close enough that I can see the ring of amber around his pupils.

“I see,” he responds, but he’s not looking at the dough.

By the time we’re ready to shape the croissants, the air in the bakery is thick with tension. My skin feels hypersensitive, aware of every current of air, every passing touch.

I demonstrate cutting the dough into triangles, the knife gliding through layered dough with satisfying precision. “Now we roll, starting from the wide end,” I explain, my voice huskier than normal. “Like this.”

I roll one triangle into the classic crescent shape, then pass triangles to each of them. “Your turn.”

Liam approaches the task with an ease that speaks of his grandmother’s influence, his croissant taking shape with natural grace. Mason works methodically, his focus absolute as he replicates my technique with careful precision. Jude’s has creative flourishes that shouldn’t work but somehow do.

Caleb studies my technique with intense focus before creating his own. His large hands move with surprising delicacy, the croissant taking shape under his careful attention. When he finishes, he looks to me for approval, a silent question in his eyes.

“Beautiful,” I say softly, and his scent spikes with pleasure at the praise.

When the croissants have proofed and it’s finally time to bake, we gather around the oven like spectators at a sporting event. I brush each pastry with egg wash, the golden liquid glistening on the surface.

“The moment of truth,” I say, sliding the trays into the oven and setting the timer. “Twenty minutes to glory or disaster.”

“With you making them? Definitely glory,” Jude says.

That’s when the rain starts. A gentle patter against the windows that quickly intensifies to a steady drumming. Fat droplets race down the glass, blurring the outside world.

“Wasn’t in the forecast,” Mason observes, glancing toward the windows with a slight frown.

“Guess you’re stuck with us a bit longer,” Jude says, bumping against me playfully. “Tragedy.”

The idea of them staying sends a curl of pleasure through me. I hide my smile by turning to check the oven window, where the croissants are already beginning to expand, the layers separating visibly as they brown.

When the timer finally chimes, I pull on my oven mitts and open the door. Heat and the intoxicating scent of butter washes over me as I carefully extract the trays.

The croissants are perfect—golden brown and shatteringly crisp on the outside, their layers distinct and visible. I can’t contain my grin of triumph as I set them on the cooling rack.

“The first official baked goods from Sweet Omega’s,” I announce, unable to keep the pride from my voice. “What do you think?”

Jude doesn’t wait for them to cool, snatching one from the tray with nimble fingers that must be impervious to heat. He tears it open, the steam escaping in a fragrant cloud, and takes a bite. His eyes close as he chews, an expression of pure bliss spreading across his face.

“Holy—” He swallows the exclamation with visible effort. “Leah, these are illegal. You’re going to have lines around the block.”

His enthusiasm is contagious, the others each taking a croissant with varying degrees of eagerness. Liam breaks his open gently, appreciation evident in his expression before he even tastes it. Mason observes his croissant for a moment, as though committing its perfection to memory, before taking acareful bite. Caleb tears his open, the layers separating perfectly, before taking a substantial bite.

Their expressions of appreciation—Liam’s warm “These are incredible,” Mason’s thoughtful “I’ve never tasted better,” Caleb’s approving nod and deepened breathing—fill me with a satisfaction deeper than any I’ve felt before.

I finally try one myself, the exterior shattering satisfyingly between my teeth, giving way to a buttery, tender interior. It’s everything a croissant should be—light, layered, with a complexity of flavor that reveals the quality of the ingredients.

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