Page 24 of Hensley Manor
Ten more days of this, and I wanted to make the most of them.
Chapter Six
“You’re joking,” I said, staring at Ian.
“No, I’m not.” He held the apron out and waved it in the air. “Things might get messy.”
“That’s what he said,” I responded with a snicker, grabbing the apron and putting it on. Thankfully, it didn’t have any stupid Christmas shit on it and was a plain blue.
Ian shook his head but was clearly amused. “Okay, first things first, you need to wash your hands. While you do that, I’ll grab the apples from the cupboard.”
“Yes, sir.” I saluted and went over to the sink. “Tell me again what we’re making?”
“Mini apple pies.” Ian dropped a bag of green apples on the counter with a light thump. He then grabbed already-made pie crusts from the refrigerator and placed them beside the apples.
“Cheater,” I said, nodding to the crusts. “A real baker would make his own crust.”
“No one asked you.” He bumped my shoulder with his before gathering the rest of the items needed for the recipe: flour, sugar, cinnamon, stick butter, and nutmeg. “I usually make my own in a full-sized pie, but since these are smaller and we need many, that would take too much time.”
“Uh huh. Excuses.”
He knew I was only kidding, though.
“Will you go pre-heat the oven to 400?” he asked, as he started peeling the apples.
“Yep.” I did as he requested before grabbing an apple and a small knife to help him. “How many of these do we need?”
“After chopping them, we’ll measure out eight cups.” Ian finished peeling one and proceeded to cut into it. I watched his hands as he cut with precision and speed—looked at the knuckle I wanted to kiss. He stopped and peered up at me, a strand of blond hair falling across his brow. “Not too hard, right?”
He thought I’d been watching him to learn how to cut them. Instead, I’d been daydreaming about his hands on me.
“Nope. Not hard at all.” Something else was hard, though.
Ian was a great teacher, showing me how to properly hold the knife when I diced the apples and explaining the steps in a language I could understand. Because, yeah, I wasn’t the sharpest knife in the kitchen when it came to knowing all the measurements, especially since some were in some kind of code like TSP and TBSP. After dumping the eight cups of apples in a bowl, we added the other ingredients and mixed it all together.
“Damn, this smells amazing,” I said, inhaling the contents of the mixing bowl. Cinnamon, nutmeg, apples, and sugar. My mouth watered.
“Just wait until you taste it.” Ian smiled as he unrolled the pie crust and flattened it on the counter. That same strand of hair fell free, brushing against his forehead. “My mother and I used to make this every Christmas. Thanksgiving, too.”
Sadness flashed in his eyes. He missed his mom.
I missed mine, too.
“My mom used to make sugar cookies,” I said, watching as Ian grabbed a small Mason jar lid and used it to cut out circles in the dough. He then placed them in a muffin tin, one circle per slot. “We’d use tree and Santa cookie cutters to cut them out, and once they were baked, we’d put sprinkles and homemade frosting on them. She’d always be sure to have a few cookies with a huge frosting to cookie ratio, because I was a sugar fiend. The more frosting, the better.”
He paused to look at me, his gaze lowering to my mouth before lifting again. Then, he looked away. “Will you help me fill the crusts?”
“Yep.”
Together, we scooped a spoonful of the apple mixture into each of the muffin slots before buttering the top of each pie and covering with the leftover dough. Ian put them into the oven and set the timer for eighteen minutes.
“I guess we wait now, huh?”
“I take it you’re impatient?” Ian wiped his hands on the towel draped over his shoulder.
“When it comes to sweets? Totally.”
“And yet, you don’t enjoy Christmas anymore.”
