Page 8 of Peaches & Cream
Ben
“What made you leave Australia?” Shelby asks, sipping a mug of tea while we sit outside on the porch, waiting for the sponge to cool enough to cut into squares then freeze before we ice it. It’s an unusual way to do this, but the sponge I make is so delicate, it would fall apart if you tried to ice it fresh. To stop myself from having to compromise on flavor, I tried freezing it, and it worked a treat. Perfect lamingtons every time.
Draining the last of my Earl Grey, I set the empty mug on the table and lean back in my chair. “Why does anyone leave? Opportunity. Wanderlust.” I shrug. “What made you stay in the south all your life?”
“Oh, that’s easy.” She looks into her mug before she lifts her blue eyes to mine. “Duty.”
“Because you were to inherit your family bakery?”
“Mmm.” She nods as she looks out at the garden, inhaling deeply through her nose. “All the Dougherty’s in my bloodline eat sleep and breath that bakery. For my town, it’s an institution. The buildin’ is near on two hundred years old. It’s like the whole world has changed around it, but that building, it stays the same.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a weight on your shoulders.”
She shrugs then smiles. “It’s always been there. Wouldn’t know myself without it.”
“OK. Try this on for size: What would you be if youweren’ta baker?”
“Ugh. That’s like askin’ me what it’d be like to have a body with no bones. Why, I don’t think I’ve ever considered anything but. What about you? If you weren’t a pastry chef, what do you think you would’ve become?”
I consider it a moment, then grin. “A baker,” I say, earning a laugh from her.
“So, baking is in your blood too, huh?”
I nod. “It is. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. All I’ll ever do.”
“And what’s the goal if you win the grand finale?”
Running my finger down an invisible crease on my pants, I smile. “Ditch the food truck. Open a real bakehouse dedicated to Aussie food.”
“So, lamingtons and pavlova?”
I nod. “And meat pies, and sausage rolls, and damper, and Vegemite scrolls.”
She scrunches her nose up, and it looks adorable. “I hear that stuff is nasty.”
“It is the way you guys eat it. Less is more with Vegemite. Every American who tries it, spreads it like it’s peanut butter. That’s not how it works.”
“Maybe you should make it for me sometime,” she says, letting her guard down for just a moment before she closes her eyes, her cheeks turning red. “I mean, you couldtellme how. I’m not implying that—”
“I’d be happy to make it for you, Shelby,” I say, locking eyes with hers. “It goes great on toast for breakfast.”
Her lips part on a gasp, and I know she doesn’t miss the implication of what I just said. Truth be told, I’d take Shelby Dougherty to bed right now, lamingtons and baking competition be damned. But there’s more to it than what I want.
“What will you do with the prize money if you win?” I ask, redirecting the conversation to help calm her sweet and sexy blush.
“Oh,” she says. “That’s easy. I’d—”
Beep, beep. Beep, beep.
“Sponge is ready,” I say, getting out of my chair and holding a hand out to help her up. She accepts, and for a moment, we just stay like that, holding hands and smiling at each other.
Beep, beep. Beep, beep.
The timer cuts through our moment with its insistent beep. “We should probably get to the icing,” she says, sliding her hand out of mine, the breathiness in her voice doing things to my dick. “I’m sure you don’t want me taking up your entire day.”
“I wouldn’t mind if you took up my entire life,” I say, noting the way her eyes go wide as I turn around and head back inside the house.
