Page 110 of Ashes of Us
He looked up. "What?"
"We're like rising dough. You have to give it time. Keep it warm and watch it carefully. Sometimes it falls and you have to start over. But if you're patient, if you do the work…” I gestured at the mixer. “Eventually it becomes something good."
"That’s…” He swallowed hard. "That's actually perfect."
"I know. I'm good at metaphors."
"You're good at everything."
"Not true. I'm terrible at asking for help. I catastrophize. I assume the worst. I?—"
He kissed me. Quick and sweet and tasting like the coffee we'd been drinking since five AM.
"You're good at everything that matters," he said when he pulled back. "And I'm going to prove I can make this bread even if it kills me. Because your sister will definitely kill me if I don't, and I'd like to live long enough to take you to dinner tonight."
"We're hosting her party tonight."
"After the party. Late dinner. That new place on Lake Street you've been talking about."
"Harvest?" I looked up at him. "That place has a three-month waiting list."
"Yeah." He added the butter to the eggs, actually measuring it properly this time. "I made reservations."
Something warm bloomed in my chest. Harvest. The farm-to-table place that had opened last fall, the one I'd been dying to try but could never justify the wait or the price or taking a whole evening off. He'd made reservations without me asking, without prompting, just because he knew I'd want to decompress after hosting Maya's party.
"You made reservations," I repeated. "At Harvest."
"I'm capable of planning ahead sometimes." He looked almost shy. "Is that okay?"
"It's perfect.
We worked in comfortable silence for a while, him following my instructions with endearing focus, me trying not to hover too much. The Channel 7 feature had aired in February—a full sixteen-minute segment on Rise & Shine that made my phone explode with new orders and my mother cry happy tears. Business had tripled. I'd hired two more employees. Started talks about maybe, possibly, expanding to a second location.
Liam had been there for all of it. Listening to me spiral about hiring decisions. Helping me interview candidates even though he knew nothing about baking. Celebrating the small victories and talking me down from the panics.
"Okay," he said, studying the mixer bowl. "Now what?"
"Now we add the flour. Gradually." I measured it out, showed him how to add it in stages while the mixer ran. "See? Slow and steady."
"Slow and steady." He watched the dough come together, looking ridiculously pleased with himself. "It's working."
"It is."
"I'm doing it."
"You are."
"Maya's going to love this."
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves. We still have to let it rise, shape it, let it rise again, and actually bake it."
"But I'm doing it." He looked at me with such open joy that my chest ached. "I'm helping."
And he was. Not just with the bread, but with everything. Showing up at the bakery when I was slammed. Bringing me dinner when I worked late. Learning the things that mattered to me even when they didn't come naturally to him.
"You are," I said softly. "You really are."
The dough hook whirred. The sun climbed higher outside. Somewhere in town, Maya was probably still sleeping, blissfully unaware that her birthday bread was being made by a man who'd learned to measure flour in the past twenty minutes.
