Page 49 of Just a Taste
What the hell does that even mean?
December arrives and people start acting like complete and utter nutjobs, spending money they don’t have and forcing themselves to spend time with friends and family they’d usually avoid at any other time in the year because, what the hell, it’sChristmas.
Am I the only person on this planet who thinks that sounds insane?
‘Well,’ Noelle says, with all the air of someone who clearly doesn’t care to argue. ‘That’s my answer. And we’ve still got a tart to make.’
Noelle moves around my kitchen with effortless grace, her movements precise and confident. I can’t help but observe how she rummages through each cupboard and drawer with familiarity, her hands almost dancing as she works.
It’s weird feeling out of place in my own kitchen, especially in this ridiculous apron, but there’s something strangely comforting about being here with her.
‘Have you ever baked anything before?’ Noelle asks, swivelling round to face me once she’s finished lining up all our ingredients on the counter. ‘Like, anything ever?’
I raise an eyebrow, trying to maintain my façade ofnonchalance. ‘I may have attempted a boxed cake mix once or twice.’
About twenty-five years ago and under the guidance of an aunt or older cousin. But still.
She pulls a face. ‘That’ssomething, I suppose.’
‘And what are we making today?’
She doesn’t answer right away, just waits patiently for me to add, ‘Chef.’
My dick twitches again. Definitely something to look into.
‘A strawberry tart,’ Noelle says, once she’s satisfied. She gestures towards the ingredients on the counter. ‘We’ve got everything we need, luckily. And it’s simpleanddelicious. The perfect combination. Sound good?’
‘Do I have any real say in the matter?’
‘Nope!’ She laughs and claps her hands together, her eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘Let’s get started. I need you to wash these strawberries.’
‘Yes, Chef,’ I say dryly, grabbing the bowl she’s already put out and making my way to the sink. As I rinse the strawberries under the running water, I can’t help but steal glances at Noelle. She’s humming a soft tune – a Christmas song, I think, her fingers expertly working the butter into the flour with all the precision of a surgeon. The warmth from the oven envelops us, and for a moment, it feels like we’re in our own little world, just the two of us, shielded from the chaos outside.
When I bring the strawberries back to the counter, Noelle shows me how to slice them perfectly into two identical halves. Her brow is furrowed in concentration, and her tongue darts out to wet her lips as she brings the knife down. It’s a perfectly ordinary gesture, one I’m sure I’ve mimicked before when I’m deep in concentration, but for some reason, it sends another heady jolt of awareness through me.
‘Something wrong?’ Noelle’s voice startles me out of my reverie.
I clear my throat. ‘No, just admiring your handiwork.’
Noelle exhales deeply and puts the knife down. ‘Every time you do that, I’m not sure how to react.’
‘Every time I do what?’
She hesitates, and then, ‘Compliment me.’
‘You’re not good at taking compliments?’ That’s surprising. I would’ve thought she’d be more than used to them by now, given her line of work and how much she excels in it.
‘I’mgreatat taking compliments,’ she laughs. ‘It the compliments fromyouthat throw me a little.’
Ah.
An emotion I’m rapidly coming to recognise as shame washes through me.
‘Well, get used to it. I’m changing my ways, Chef,’ I reply, feeling the corners of my lips tug into a small smile, despite myself. Noelle’s laughter is infectious, filling the kitchen with a warmth that goes beyond the heat from the oven.
Thirty minutes later, and I’m no longer smiling.
I’m attempting to fold the pastry, but it’s not cooperating. The dough is either too stubborn or I am. At this point, I don’t care to figure out which one of us is the problem, I just want this to be done.
