Chapter 11: Sera's POV
As I climbed out of the truck and hurried toward the lobby, I felt like I was walking toward my own funeral. I was going to his house to bake with him, while he was hung up on a dancer in a pink wig that didn’t exist off the stage.
I just didn't know which version of me was going to win.
By the time I’d sent the ingredient list—heavy on the high-fat European butter, cardamom pods, and a very specific, organic brand of pure pumpkin puree (I’d made sure to specify not the pre-spiced pie mix)—and received his short, vibrating response of “Looking forward to it,” it was nearly 4:00 AM.
I’d collapsed into bed with my hair still smelling faintly of stage hairspray and my heart still pounding from the memory of his scent.
Now, standing in front of the massive, dark wood door of the football house at 12:30 PM, I felt like I was vibrating. I’d spent the morning obsessing over the recipe Amelia and I had been dissecting weeks ago. Kouign-Amanns. The "fatty cake" of Brittany. It was a technical nightmare of laminated dough and sugar that crystallized into a crunchy, buttery shell.
It was a flex. I knew it. But if Bash was so enamored with the "technical precision" of a dancer, I wanted to show him that "Sera" had a few masterclasses of her own under her belt. Plus, I remembered him mentioning a weakness for pumpkin pie during one of our late-night library sessions. A pumpkin pastry cream filling was my peace offering—a way to remind him that the girl in the oversized glasses was the one who actually knew his tastes.
Not that I was competing with a pink-wigged siren. I wasn't that pathetic.
The door swung open before I could even knock.
Bash was standing there, looking annoyingly refreshed in a dark green Henley that hugged his chest and a pair of faded jeans. He didn't look like a guy who had been up until 3:00 AM watching burlesque.
"You're late," he murmured, though his eyes were dancing with a dark, satisfied light. "The butter is already chilling. I wasn't sure if you wanted it salted or unsalted, so I got both."
"Twelve-thirty-two isn't late, Bash. It's a grand entrance," I countered, stepping past him into the house.
The place was cavernous and suspiciously quiet. I’d expected a swarm of oversized athletes and the smell of old pizza, but the air was clean, smelling faintly of citrus and... the spicy, aromatic scent of the spices I’d asked for.
"Where is everyone?" I asked, heading toward the kitchen.
"Out," he said simply, following close enough behind me that I could feel the heat of him. "Miller’s nursing a hangover at his girlfriend's place, and the rest of the guys are at the practice facility. I know it was a bi week this week, but we do have a game to prep for next saturday. It’s just us."
I tried not to let my discomfort show as we walked down the hall. I was expecting buffers of rowdy college boys, but instead we have an intimate quiet. As soon as I walked into the kitchen though, all of my apprehension went out the door.
The kitchen wasn’t just a baker’s dream; it was a high-performance engine for a lifestyle I hadn’t quite associated with Bash yet. It was massive, anchored by a double-island of white marble that looked cool enough to keep even the most temperamental puff pastry from melting.
It was all clean lines and expensive stone. A massive copper hood hung over a professional range, and the sub-zero refrigerator was tucked seamlessly into dark oak cabinetry. But it was the light that caught me—huge, floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over a private, manicured backyard, flooding the marble counters with the kind of bright, honest midday sun that made you want to bask in it.
The appliances were all professional-grade stainless steel—a six-burner range that looked like it could power a small restaurant and double wall ovens that probably held their temperature to the exact degree. It was a sterile, beautiful space, but Bash had already warmed it up. He had the ingredients laid out with a precision that bordered on clinical.
The spices were out of their jars, the earthy aroma of cardamom and cinnamon already blooming in the air. The heavy blocks of European butter were sweating slightly on a marble board, and the gold-and-white label of the organic pumpkin puree stood like a sentry next to a stack of clean mixing bowls.
"You really do have everything," I whispered, stepping up to the island. I reached out to touch the stand mixer—a heavy, professional model in a matte charcoal finish. "I thought you’d all lived on protein shakes and takeout."
Bash chuckled “football players need to eat so during the week there is a chef that comes and makes breakfast and dinner. This is his space technically but I made sure he was okay with us using it, as long as we clean up.” I smiled at his instinct to ask permission. If someone stepped into my kitchen and did god knows what. Well, it wouldn’t be “quiet library girl” that dealt with them that’s for sure.
I walked over to the ingredients and looked over everything. Behind me, Bash continued, “So I looked up these Kouign-Amann things. Everything I read said they were pretty complicated. That’s a lot of work for a 'relaxing' day, Sera. You trying to impress me, Cupcake?” I whirled around hoping that my cheeks weren’t the shade of bright red they felt.
"I'm trying to feed myself, Bash. You're just a lucky bystander." I pulled my hair back into a tight, practical bun—a far cry from the wild, auburn waves I’d been hiding under the wig. "This dough takes hours. There's a lot of waiting around. Are you sure you're up for that?"
"I've got nothing but time, Cupcake," he said, his voice dropping into that low, possessive hum. He reached over and picked up a stray cardamom pod, rolling it between his large, calloused fingers. “And time with you is always well spent.”
He gave me that panty-melting grin of his. Oh, I was in so much trouble.
“Great!” My voice cracked, hitting a register only dogs could hear. I scrambled for my bag and yanked out my apron. It was a bit battered, with a few stubborn flour stains and a phantom vanilla extract splotch from a year ago. It was my "workhorse" apron, and standing in this pristine, professional kitchen, it felt embarrassingly out of place.
I felt Bash’s eyes on the stained fabric as I looped it over my head. I expected a comment about it—something about the dive bar or my "cleaning" job—but he just stepped in close, his hands reaching around my waist to grab the strings before I could.
"Here," he murmured, his knuckles grazing the small of my back. "Let me."
I went still, my breath hitching as he tied a neat, firm bow behind me. He stayed there for a second too long, his chest a solid wall of heat against my back.
“Let’s get to work!” I choked out, spinning away the second he let go. I grabbed the flour and the mixing bowl like they were life rafts. "First step: the détrempe. We need to mix the flour, water, and a bit of that melted butter. It has to be perfect before we even think about the lamination."
"Lead the way, Captain," Bash said, leaning back against the marble and crossing his arms. He looked like he was settling in for a show. "I'm all ears."