She smiled. He liked the way her teeth were white and even, with the slightest bit of overbite that added a sexy edge to her smile. “The pump can be stubborn.”
“I didn’t have a problem.”
Her smile faded. He’d been too abrupt. She stepped back and motioned him in with a flour-coated hand.
“Could you pour some of that into the pot on the stove?”
She wanted him to go into the room. Such a small thing. Such an impossible thing. He stared at her outstretched hand, focusing on the faint lines etched into the palm, counting them. One, two, three, four . . . The walls bulged and retreated. The wallpaper blurred at the edges. No. He set his jaw. Not now. Not now. The tang of copper filled his mouth as his canines cut anew through his gums. His fingers itched as his claws prepared to extend.
“Isaiah?” The softness of Addy’s voice cloaked the beast in a tempting lure, lulling it into a softer prowl. “Are you all right?
Goddamn it, he would be. Isaiah switched his focus to Addy’s face, the curve of her cheek, the strength of her jaw, the softness of her lips . . . The mirage retreated and once again it was just a room with pretty wallpaper and scrubbed floors.
He nodded his head as Addy took a step back, making room for him to pass. If she knew what he was, what they’d made him, she wouldn’t be inviting him in. But she didn’t have a clue. Somehow, he looked normal to her. “I’m fine.”
“Then come in.” Her fingers brushed his as she motioned him forward again. A tingle of awareness went down his spine, and from the catch in her breath, she’d felt that awareness, too. Her “It’s getting chilly out” was a bit breathless.
He made it two feet into the room before the walls started closing in on him.
She moved past him to the worktable. “I need about a cup of water in that small pot before you put the kettle on the burner.”
He could do that. He was sweating before he finished the maneuver, though. Who the hell knew how much water was in the pot? A cup, a gallon. The kettle settled on the back burner with a clank. When he looked over his shoulder, Addy was fussing with a bowl. In his peripheral vision, the walls started to move. Shit. He needed something new on which to focus. The only thing in sight was Addy.
“What are you doing?”
“Making bread.”
It was late in the afternoon. “Now?”
She shrugged. “It soothes me.”
She rubbed her cheek on her shoulder. “Could you check the water in the pot? It should feel uncomfortable but not too hot on your finger.”
She wanted him to stick his finger in the water. He could do that. It was manageable.
“It’s hot, but not too hot.”
“Good. Could you bring it here?”
His beast roared “yes.” He wanted to be close enough to breathe in her scent again. His human snapped “no.” The beast won. In five steps, he was at her side.
“Pour it here.” She pointed to a well in the flour as soon as he got close enough.
He poured, breathing the combination of her scent, flour and yeast, and a hint of . . . honey? The combination was . . . soothing. He didn’t move away, just watched as she stirred the mixture together.
“What does the water do?”
“When combined with the honey, it wakes up the yeast.”
“What happens then?”
Her smile caught him by surprise, flashing past his guard, finding and stroking his beast to life. Or was it the man? It was getting harder to tell where one left off and the other began.
“Magic.” Covering the bowl with a cloth, she put it in the side oven and took another covered bowl out. As she straightened, she asked. “Want to be part of it?”
Yes, he realized with surprise, he did. “Sure.”
She removed the cover. More dough. She divided the dough in half before nodding to the daisy print apron to the side. “You might want to put on an apron.”
He eyed the feminine garment. There were limits to how far he’d go to stay in that kitchen and near that illusion of peace she offered. “I’ll risk getting dirty.”
She grinned. “There’s no one to see.”
She looked so pure in the afternoon sunlight. So clean. So . . . perfect. “There’s you.”
She went still and her smile took on that tension of someone unsure. He motioned with his hands. “I need to wash up.”
“Go ahead. I’ll wait.”
He bet she would. The woman had the patience of a saint when she wanted to. He poured a little of the water from the pitcher by the basin over his hands and quickly scooped some soap into them. She seemed to be waiting for something. Belatedly he remembered to say, “Thank you.”
She didn’t look away as he’d expected, just watched him wash up. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as she watched him come back with an unconscious hunger in her gaze. He hadn’t been mistaken. The attraction between them was mutual. And stronger since their “one night only.” Yet another complication in an already complicated year. But at least he could control this one.
“Are you ready?” she asked when he got back to the table.
“Yeah.”
She moved over, making room for him beside her at the table. “They call this ‘kneading the dough.’ If you do it right, your bread will be light and airy.”
“And if I don’t?”
“It’ll sit like a rock.”
“I’ve had a few of those loaves.”
Her smile was natural as she scooped flour from a bowl and sprinkled it on the table. “Well, if you don’t want to make one of those, you should knead it until it feels soft and stretchy.”
“And I’ll know this when I feel it?”
“Yes, if you have the heart of a baker.”
He liked to think he could have the heart of something besides a killer. But he wasn’t sure a baker was it. Then again, he didn’t know much about himself. Or what he was capable of. He touched his finger to the dough. It stuck.
“Flour your hands.”
Of course. He copied her movements, floured his hands then the space on the table before dropping the ball of dough on it. It landed with a soft splat. Flour poofed outward.
“Now knead it.”
He watched her hand movements. Fold, press with a rocking motion of the heel of her hand, and then a quarter turn of the dough and repeat. It didn’t look hard or particularly soothing, but when Addy glanced at him expectantly, he followed her movements. And to his surprise, as the dough absorbed the flour and began to take on a bit of resistance, he fell into a rhythm unique to himself, one that quieted the racing of his mind and offered a soothing peace. The muscles in the back of his neck relaxed.
“How long do we do this?”
“For me it’s about eleven minutes but it may be more or less for you.”
Eleven minutes of peace. It sounded like heaven. He kept kneading. Press, rock, turn, fold. Press, rock, turn, fold. And as he did, the peace spread. It was almost with regret that he felt the tension in the dough reach a level that just felt . . . right. He forced himself to stop. Looking up, he found her watching him.
“I think mine’s ready.”
“All right.” She reached beneath the table to the lower shelf and pulled up a round wooden pan. “Here. Put it in here. This is a brioche pan.”
“A what?”
“A decorative pan that will give your loaf of bread a nice shape when it’s done.”
The pan had grooves carved into the edges, like the petals of a flower. He could picture a loaf of bread with a fancy top like that. He liked it that something he did would end up pretty. He started to put his dough in. She stopped him with a hand on his forearm.
“I’m sorry. We have to oil it first.”
He understood. “So it won’t stick.”
“Yes.”
“What do I oil it with?”
She pushed a clay jar toward him. “Butter.”
He scooped a handful and spread it around the bowl.
“Then sprinkle it with flour. Just put a handful in the middle and shake it all around. But not too—”
Too late. The big shake he gave the bowl had flour flying up in his face. He coughed and waved away the dust. “Not too hard? Was that what you were going to say?”
She chuckled. “You were too fast for me.”
He probably had been, but at least his bread wasn’t ruined. He put his dough in the pan. “What do we do now?”
With the edge of her apron, she reached up toward his face. His first instinct was to jerk back, but this was Addy and he was trying to be normal. He held perfectly still. She wiped flour from his cheek. “We let that rise.”
“Rise?”
“As warm as it is now, it’ll probably only be about an hour.”
He looked at his dough sitting in the fancy bowl. “And when it’s done? What then?”
She smiled at him as she spread butter around her own pan. One not as fancy as his, he noticed. “We take it out and then we eat it for dinner.”
“Do you do this every day?”
She nodded. “I like running a bakery. I like baking bread.” She shrugged. “It sells well, it soothes me, and it gives me a level of independence. Not much there not to like.”
“You like feeding people?”
“Well, there is something very satisfying about watching people enjoy what you’ve prepared. It’s a happy thing.”
It was that. Isaiah looked at his pan as she covered it with a wet towel. Providing food for people was a far cry from taking away their lives.
Despite the other pan being ready, she didn’t put her dough in. “You’re not doing yours?”
She shook her head and reached toward her pocket before catching herself. She rubbed her neck instead. “It’s not ready yet. I need to work it more.”
From the way she was rubbing the hollow of her neck, he was willing to bet
she
wasn’t ready. Unfortunately, his dough was done and he had an hour to kill.
“Are you going to open the bakery tomorrow?”
“I have to.” She grabbed a box from the counter behind them and dumped it on the table. Pieces of paper spilled out. “These are orders that people need filled. I’m behind as it is. If I wait much longer, I won’t have any customers left. While you were getting water, I went out front. These are orders people left.”
“They were expecting you back?”
She shrugged. “I like to think they were optimistic, but likely Cole kept it quiet as long as he could so people dropped off their order in the box like they always have.”
“You think they still want them?”
She shot him a grin. “If not, I’m going to pretend they do.”
He decided he liked this side of her. “You need the money?”
“I’ve got to pay you, don’t I?”
He couldn’t very well deny that. With the tip of his finger he dragged one of the pieces over to him. Muffins.
“How do you make muffins?” He’d never thought about preparing his own food that way. Eating had been a means to an end, but he had a vague memory of eating muffins. It was a happy memory, he thought. The concept of making his own muffins became more intriguing.
“They’re quicker than bread.”
“Good.”
“Well,” she said, “if you’re going to keep baking, you really need to put on an apron.”
Isaiah looked at the pink gingham apron hanging on the hook. “I don’t think so.”
“Your clothes are going to get ruined.”
“I’ll wash them.”
“All right.”
She spun a piece of paper toward him. “Mrs. McGillicuddy wants apple bread. It’s something she has every spring when her daughter visits from back East.”
“How do we make that?”
“Well, first we have to peel the apples. She brought us some from her cellar. They’re in that sack by the back door.”
He could do that. Isaiah pulled a knife out of his boot. He was good with a knife. “I came prepared.”
Addy looked at it and shuddered. “I usually use a kitchen knife.”
He felt stupid as he put it back in its sheath. “Of course.”
When civilized people prepared food, they probably used different utensils than the ones used for killing people. Addy handed him a small knife.
“You can use this.” He tested the edge on his thumb. It wasn’t sharp. “It’ll take me forever to peel anything with this.”
“Sorry. I’m not very good about remembering to sharpen.”
“Do you have a whetstone?”
“On the back steps.” Wiping her hands on her apron, she hurried to the door, scooped up a burlap sack, and handed it to him when he reached her side. Sunlight spilled in through the opening, catching her hair and giving her that halo look. He loved her hair—he could look at it all day. He’d spent so long in the dark that the play of light in her hair was irresistible.