Page 87 of Just My Type
“I think maybe fate should have given us an apple pie recipe or something. I’m definitely going to mess this up. Is it supposed to be bubbling like that? It doesn’t look right,” I say, peering into the saucepan.
“It looks perfect.” Noah smacks another kiss to my cheek and squeezes my hips, then stands straight, grabbing a glass measuring cup full of the yolks from the eggs he separated before we started this little baking adventure. The man can separate eggs with expert precision. Be still my heart, and all that. “You can stop whisking now. Reduce the heat to low so we can temper the egg yolks.”
I turn to him, raising an eyebrow. “So we can do what with the egg yolks?”
“Temper them. It means adding some of the hot liquid to the room temperature egg yolks, then adding the egg yolks slowly to the hot mixture. It helps with the consistency of the filling and makes it so the eggs don’t accidentally cook when they touch the hot liquid.”
Noah grins at me, spoon in one hand and measuring cup in the other, blue eyes sparkling, hair a messy tousle, and his navy T-shirt hugging his muscles like it was custom made just for him. My heart stumbles, and it’s all I can do to keep from pressing my hand to my chest, suddenly feeling like I’m overheating from the inside out.
“That sounds pretty complicated. Maybe you should do this part.”
Noah smirks at me, like he can see right inside my head. “Uh-uh, Han, you’re doing it. We can do hard things, baby, and you’re doing this.”
It turns out I can, in fact, do it. Sort of. Noah walks me through the multi-step process of tempering egg yolks or whatever, and eight minutes later, he declares the mixture finished, flipping off the heat and taking the pan off the stove just as the oven beeps. Opening the oven door, he pulls out a pie crust I didn’t even know was in there. And it looks…weird.
“Why are there dried beans in your pie crust?”
Noah snorts out a laugh, putting the pie crust down on the counter and lifting a piece of what looks like white paper out by two corners, taking all the beans with it. “You use them when you par bake a crust to make sure that the bottom of the crust stays flat. I usually use pie weights, but I think Cece stole mine because I can’t find them anywhere, so I improvised.”
I peer at it. “That doesn’t look like a crust you buy at the grocery store.”
Noah scoffs, grabbing the saucepan and pouring the lemon mixture into the crust, smoothing it out with some utensil thatlooks like a long, flat spatula. I don’t know why a man who has a kitchen stocked with baking utensils I didn’t even know existed in nature and couldn’t identify with a gun to my head is so attractive, but good lord.
“As if I would have grocery store pie crusts in my kitchen. I made the dough earlier and stuck it in the oven right before you got here. Pie crusts from scratch, Han, or not at all.”
Noah sets the saucepan down, reaching in and running a finger around the rim, then lifting the finger to my mouth, smirk on his face. “Open.”
I do, and he slides his finger inside. I close my lips around it, sucking the tart filling off, flavors exploding on my tongue as I swirl it around the tip of his finger, loving the way his eyes flash with heat. Pulling his finger out of my mouth, he wraps his hand around the back of my neck and brings his mouth to mine, teasing it open with his tongue and diving inside. A groan rumbles in his chest as he tangles his hand in my hair, using it to tip my head back and take the kiss deeper. The taste of the lemon mixed with the taste to him is a heady thing, and I wrap an arm around his waist, bringing our bodies flush as his tongue continues its exploration, my stomach flipping at the feel of him, already hard against my belly.
“So sweet,” Noah mutters, trailing his tongue over my bottom lip then dragging his mouth away from mine, kissing a path down my jaw to my neck. He flicks my pulse point with his tongue and laughs softly when I gasp. “So perfect. Can’t wait to be inside you again.”
I whimper when he grazes his teeth over the sensitive skin behind my ear. “We should do that now.”
“Patience, Gorgeous,” Noah murmurs, bringing his mouth back to mine in a long, slow kiss. “We’ll get there. But first, we have a pie to finish.”
“Pies are overrated,” I mumble against his lips, tightening my arms around his waist.
“Not the way we make them,” Noah says, leaning back anddropping a kiss on my nose, flashing me a grin. “Come on, Han, I’ll show you how to make the meringue.”
“Oh, my god, this is so good,” I mumble through a mouthful of pie.
“Say it,” Noah orders, picking up my legs from where they rest on the couch and sitting down, dropping my legs in his lap.
“Say what?” I ask, wholly focused on the best thing I have ever eaten in my entire life.
“Say, Noah, you’re a god in the kitchen, and I’m the luckiest woman on earth to have a husband who bakes.”
I scoff, shoving another bite of pie into my mouth. “I’m pretty sure I made this pie, my friend, so I think it’s you who’s the lucky one.”
Noah looks at me, his hand circling my leg, thumb rubbing slow circles on my ankle. “You’re right about that. The luckiest fucking guy on earth.”
I just barely resist the urge to squirm under his intense gaze, the all too familiar feeling that Noah sees right down to my deepest depths washing over me. A little shaken by it, I break eye contact, my gaze landing on a Kindle I hadn’t noticed before sitting on the coffee table, the cover preview a popular new romance release I read last week.
“I loved that book,” I say, waving a hand at the Kindle.
“So good right?” he says absently, eating more pie. “I think it’s her best one yet.”
I turn back to him. “Okay, I think we’ve been dancing around it for long enough. What’s the deal with you and romance?”
