Page 49 of Pack Plus One (Sweetwater City Reverse Harem Omegaverse #1)
“It can,” I admit, already pulling out butter—the French butter they just helped unload—and placing it on the marble countertop. “But I know a few shortcuts. It’ll still take a few hours though, so if you need to go?—”
“We don’t,” Caleb says simply, his deep voice brooking no argument.
“Show us,” Mason adds quietly, his steady presence already calming my sudden nervousness about sharing this process.
Liam steps closer to the counter, a gentle smile softening his features. “I’d love to learn how it’s done properly.”
Their interest warms me more than the oven ever could.
“Okay then.” I pin my hair back, suddenly energized. “Gather ‘round for Croissants 101.”
The process begins with ingredients. Flour, salt, yeast…
the building blocks of happiness. I pour the ingredients into the bowl, my hands moving with ease.
This is where I belong. Not at a stuffy wedding, not playing pretend with a pack that’s not mine, but here, in my kitchen, surrounded by the scents and sounds of creation.
I glance at Caleb, catching his eye, and can’t help the smile that spreads across my face.
“The dough needs structure but tenderness.” I continue kneading. “Too much working and it gets tough, too little and it won’t hold the layers.”
“Like relationships,” Jude says, leaning his elbows on the counter. When we all turn to look at him, he shrugs. “What? I have depths.”
When my arms tire from kneading, Liam steps in without being asked, his hands working the dough with surprising skill. His touch is gentle but confident, just like the way he touches me, and I find myself watching the movement of his fingers fascinated.
“You’ve done this before,” I comment, surprised by his deft handling of the dough.
He shrugs. “My grandmother practically raised me in her bakery. Sundays were for cinnamon rolls and guilt trips about not eating enough.”
I grin. “Guilt trips are a key ingredient in every good baker’s arsenal.”
Mason, watching intently, picks up a piece of the chilled butter. “So, the temperature matters that much?” he asks, turning it over in his hands.
“Everything in baking is about balance,” I explain, oddly touched by his interest. “Too cold and the butter cracks, too warm and it melts into the dough instead of creating layers.”
He nods, absorbing this information even though it shouldn’t really be of interest to him. When our hands briefly touch as I pass him the dough scraper, the contact sends a small jolt through me, his skin warm against mine.
The crucial process of encasing the butter in dough draws them all closer, crowding around the marble counter.
“Watch,” I say, placing the butter block in the center of the rolled-out dough. The butter gleams slightly in the light, pale yellow and perfectly rectangular after I’ve beaten and folded it into shape. “This is where the magic happens.”
I fold the dough over the butter, sealing it with careful pinches. The weight of their attention should be uncomfortable, but instead it feels like a spotlight I’ve been unknowingly craving—appreciation for the craft I’ve spent years perfecting.
“Now we roll,” I explain, positioning the rolling pin at the top of the dough packet. “This creates the layers. Dough, butter, dough, butter—repeated dozens of times through folding and rolling.”
Caleb steps closer, his chest nearly touching my back. “Show me,” he says, and it’s not quite a command, but close enough that my omega instincts stir in response.
I hand him the rolling pin, our fingers brushing in a way that sends warmth cascading through me. “Gentle but firm pressure,” I instruct, my voice embarrassingly breathy as I guide his hands. “Even thickness throughout.”
He nods, expression intent as he follows my direction. His arms bracket me as he works the dough, his body radiating heat that I feel even without direct contact. When he leans forward slightly to inspect his work, his chest presses against my back, and I inhale audibly.
His nostrils flare slightly at the sound, but he doesn’t comment, doesn’t push the advantage. Instead, he simply continues rolling with careful concentration, though I don’t miss how he maintains the contact between us.
Between each series of folds and the necessary resting periods, I find myself gravitating between them in a pattern that feels natural but is anything but accidental.
I brush past Mason to reach the refrigerator though there’s plenty of room to go around, my arm sliding against his. His sharp intake of breath is nearly imperceptible, but the warmth that flickers in his normally composed expression tells me everything I need to know.
With Liam, I demonstrate the technique for checking dough elasticity, guiding his hands with mine. His touch is warm and steady, and he maintains the contact a moment longer than necessary, his eyes meeting mine with quiet intensity that makes my pulse quicken.
Jude receives less subtlety. When he makes a particularly terrible pun about “rising to the occasion,” I flick flour at him, laughing at his exaggerated outrage. He retaliates by dabbing a spot of dough on my nose, his fingers lingering a fraction too long against my skin.
“Missed a spot,” he murmurs, voice lower than his usual jovial tone, and wipes it away with his thumb. The simple touch sends a delightful skitter through me.
As I demonstrate the final fold technique, I position myself so that Caleb must stand directly behind me again, his chest pressing my back.
“See how the layers form?” I ask, looking over my shoulder at him. He leans in and our faces are inches apart, close enough that I can see the ring of amber around his pupils.
“I see,” he responds, but he’s not looking at the dough.
By the time we’re ready to shape the croissants, the air in the bakery is thick with tension. My skin feels hypersensitive, aware of every current of air, every passing touch.
I demonstrate cutting the dough into triangles, the knife gliding through layered dough with satisfying precision. “Now we roll, starting from the wide end,” I explain, my voice huskier than normal. “Like this.”
I roll one triangle into the classic crescent shape, then pass triangles to each of them. “Your turn.”
Liam approaches the task with an ease that speaks of his grandmother’s influence, his croissant taking shape with natural grace. Mason works methodically, his focus absolute as he replicates my technique with careful precision. Jude’s has creative flourishes that shouldn’t work but somehow do.
Caleb studies my technique with intense focus before creating his own. His large hands move with surprising delicacy, the croissant taking shape under his careful attention. When he finishes, he looks to me for approval, a silent question in his eyes.
“Beautiful,” I say softly, and his scent spikes with pleasure at the praise.
When the croissants have proofed and it’s finally time to bake, we gather around the oven like spectators at a sporting event. I brush each pastry with egg wash, the golden liquid glistening on the surface.
“The moment of truth,” I say, sliding the trays into the oven and setting the timer. “Twenty minutes to glory or disaster.”
“With you making them? Definitely glory,” Jude says.
That’s when the rain starts. A gentle patter against the windows that quickly intensifies to a steady drumming. Fat droplets race down the glass, blurring the outside world.
“Wasn’t in the forecast,” Mason observes, glancing toward the windows with a slight frown.
“Guess you’re stuck with us a bit longer,” Jude says, bumping against me playfully. “Tragedy.”
The idea of them staying sends a curl of pleasure through me. I hide my smile by turning to check the oven window, where the croissants are already beginning to expand, the layers separating visibly as they brown.
When the timer finally chimes, I pull on my oven mitts and open the door. Heat and the intoxicating scent of butter washes over me as I carefully extract the trays.
The croissants are perfect—golden brown and shatteringly crisp on the outside, their layers distinct and visible. I can’t contain my grin of triumph as I set them on the cooling rack.
“The first official baked goods from Sweet Omega’s,” I announce, unable to keep the pride from my voice. “What do you think?”
Jude doesn’t wait for them to cool, snatching one from the tray with nimble fingers that must be impervious to heat. He tears it open, the steam escaping in a fragrant cloud, and takes a bite. His eyes close as he chews, an expression of pure bliss spreading across his face.
“Holy—” He swallows the exclamation with visible effort. “Leah, these are illegal. You’re going to have lines around the block.”
His enthusiasm is contagious, the others each taking a croissant with varying degrees of eagerness.
Liam breaks his open gently, appreciation evident in his expression before he even tastes it.
Mason observes his croissant for a moment, as though committing its perfection to memory, before taking a careful bite.
Caleb tears his open, the layers separating perfectly, before taking a substantial bite.
Their expressions of appreciation—Liam’s warm “These are incredible,” Mason’s thoughtful “I’ve never tasted better,” Caleb’s approving nod and deepened breathing—fill me with a satisfaction deeper than any I’ve felt before.
I finally try one myself, the exterior shattering satisfyingly between my teeth, giving way to a buttery, tender interior. It’s everything a croissant should be—light, layered, with a complexity of flavor that reveals the quality of the ingredients.
“This is why I do this,” I say softly, unable to contain the emotion in my voice. “This moment—seeing people enjoy something I’ve created. It’s... everything.”
The sincerity of my statement hangs in the air as the rain pounds harder against the windows. Thunder rumbles in the distance, and the lights flicker once before steadying.