Page 43 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)
FLOUR AND FIRE
~JUNIPER~
T he Orchard Bakery at dawn is a completely different creature than it is during the busy afternoon rush.
Quiet, peaceful, filled with the kind of golden morning light that makes everything look like a painting.
The air is thick with the scents of rising dough and caramelizing sugar, undercut with the rich aroma of coffee that's been brewing since before the sun came up. Steam fogs the windows, creating a cozy cocoon that feels separate from the rest of the world.
It's exactly the kind of place that makes you want to stay forever.
Beckett moves through the space with the easy confidence of someone who knows every inch of his domain.
He's already been here for hours— I can tell by the way multiple batches of bread are cooling on racks, by the systematic organization of ingredients laid out for the day's baking, by the flour dusting his forearms that speaks to serious work already accomplished.
"You know," I say, perching on one of the tall stools near the central work island, "I have to learn the secret to your blackberry pies. Those are probably still my all-time favorite, though I have to admit the cinnamon rolls are next level."
It's true.
Even after all these years, even after sampling bakeries in half a dozen different cities, nothing has ever come close to the perfection of Beckett's blackberry pie.
The way the fruit bursts sweet and tart on your tongue, the flaky crust that somehow manages to be both delicate and substantial, the hint of vanilla and lemon zest that elevates the whole thing from good to transcendent.
Beckett's lips curve into that slow, satisfied smile that he gets when someone compliments his baking. It's not arrogance exactly— more like the quiet pleasure of a craftsman who knows he's mastered his art.
"Secret ingredient," he says solemnly, pulling a large mixing bowl from the shelf above his head. "Can't just give that away to anyone."
"Anyone?" I echo, raising an eyebrow. "I'll have you know I'm not just anyone. I'm the woman who once ate an entire blackberry pie in one sitting because I was stressed about a math test."
"You were fourteen and going through a growth spurt," he points out with a chuckle. "Plus, you shared the last slice with me."
The memory hits me with surprising warmth.
Sitting in Aunt Lil's kitchen on a rainy Sunday afternoon, both of us covered in purple stains, laughing until our stomachs hurt.
Back when everything was simple and uncomplicated and the biggest worry in my life was whether I'd pass algebra.
"I was being generous," I say with mock dignity. "And strategic. Had to make sure you'd keep making them for me."
"Smart girl," he says, reaching for the flour canister. "Though I seem to remember you trying to bribe me with other things too. Didn't you once offer to do my English homework for a month in exchange for the cinnamon roll recipe?"
"That was a perfectly reasonable business proposition," I defend, though I'm grinning now. "And you turned me down, if I recall correctly."
"Because Mrs. Patterson would have figured it out in about five minutes," he says, measuring flour with the kind of precision that speaks to years of practice. "Your handwriting looks nothing like mine, and you actually know how to use semicolons properly."
The easy banter feels good.
Natural.
Like slipping back into a favorite sweater that still fits perfectly despite all the years that have passed.
I watch him work, noting the way his hands move with such confidence and economy of motion. There's something hypnotic about watching someone who's truly skilled at their craft— every gesture purposeful, every measurement exact, every movement flowing seamlessly into the next.
And there's something undeniably attractive about competence.
Especially when it comes wrapped in broad shoulders and gentle hands and the kind of quiet strength that makes you feel safe just being in the same room.
"So what are we making?" I ask, hopping down from my stool to wash my hands at the large industrial sink.
"Blackberry pies," he says with a grin. "Since you asked so nicely. And since I happen to have the perfect berries—got them from Morrison's farm yesterday morning. Still warm from the sun when I picked them up."
Fresh blackberries.
No wonder his pies are legendary.
Most commercial bakeries use frozen fruit or canned filling, but Beckett sources everything locally, builds relationships with farmers, cares about quality in a way that shows in every bite.
He pulls out ingredients with the efficiency of someone who's made this recipe hundreds of times— butter, sugar, eggs, vanilla, a bottle of lemon juice that looks like it came from actual lemons rather than a plastic container.
"First lesson," he says, tying an apron around his waist. "Pie crust is all about temperature. Cold butter, cold water, cold hands if you can manage it."
He hands me an apron— a simple white cotton thing that's probably seen more flour than a wheat field —and I tie it on, feeling oddly domestic and right about the whole situation.
Like this is where I'm supposed to be.
Like this is what I've been missing without even knowing it.
"Cold hands shouldn't be a problem," I say, flexing my fingers. "I'm always freezing."
"Perfect," he says, starting to cut butter into cubes with practiced movements. "That's actually an advantage in pastry-making. Some of the best bakers I know have naturally cold hands."
The work is surprisingly meditative.
Measuring and mixing, folding and rolling, the simple pleasure of creating something with your hands that will bring joy to other people.
It's the kind of work that engages your body while letting your mind wander, the kind of rhythm that feels ancient and fundamental.
We fall into an easy pattern— him explaining techniques, me following instructions, both of us tasting and adjusting and laughing when something doesn't go exactly according to plan.
"More flour," he says when my dough sticks to the rolling pin. "And don't overwork it. Tough crust is the enemy of good pie."
He reaches around me to demonstrate the proper rolling technique, his chest pressing against my back, his hands covering mine on the pin. The contact is casual, instructional, but it makes my skin tingle with awareness.
He smells like cinnamon and vanilla and fresh bread.
Like comfort and home and all the things I didn't realize I was hungry for.
"Like this?" I ask, trying to focus on the task at hand instead of the way his breath feels warm against my ear.
"Perfect," he murmurs, and there's something in his voice that has nothing to do with pie crust.
We're standing close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
Close enough that I'm acutely aware of every point of contact between us.
Close enough that the innocent baking lesson is starting to feel like something else entirely.
When he steps back to check on the berry filling, I immediately miss the warmth of his presence. But I force myself to focus on rolling the dough into a perfect circle, using the technique he just showed me.
Concentrate on the pie, Juniper.
Not on the way his hands look when he's stirring fruit.
Not on the little crease of concentration between his eyebrows.
Not on how domestic and right this whole scene feels.
"How's it looking?" he asks, glancing over at my handiwork.
It's actually not terrible.
The circle is reasonably round, the thickness appears to be consistent, and I haven't torn any holes that I can see.
"Not bad for a novice," I say with pride.
"Not bad at all," he agrees, then grins wickedly. "Though you've got a little something?—"
Before I can ask what he means, he reaches out and brushes his thumb across my nose, leaving a streak of flour behind.
The gesture is playful, affectionate, the kind of thing that would be completely innocent under normal circumstances.
But there's nothing normal about the way my body responds to his touch.
Or the way his eyes darken when he realizes what he's done.
"Flour," he says unnecessarily, his voice slightly rougher than before.
Two can play this game.
Instead of wiping the flour away like a reasonable person would, I step closer to him. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that I can see the way his pupils dilate as he realizes what I'm about to do.
Then I go up on my tiptoes and press my lips to the side of his neck.
Not a quick peck.
A real kiss, with enough suction and pressure to leave a mark.
A hickey that will be visible for days.
When I pull back, his eyes are wide with shock and something that looks like barely controlled desire.
"Whipped cream," I say innocently, licking my lips. "On your neck."
His face goes absolutely scarlet.
"There's—" he starts, his voice cracking slightly. "There's no whipped cream out."
I just wink at him, enjoying the way he's struggling to process what just happened.
"Guess I was mistaken," I say with exaggerated innocence. "I'm going to go watch the pies rise."
I start to turn away, but his hand shoots out to catch my wrist.
"Oh no," he says, his voice dropping to that particular register that makes my insides turn to liquid. "You're going to be mischievous and attract Ray in here, and he's already enough of a douche to deal with on a normal day."
His thumb strokes across my pulse point, and I can feel my heart rate spike in response.
"Come here," he continues, tugging me gently back toward the work station. "Let's make more pies together. Keep those dangerous lips of yours occupied with something innocent."
Innocent.
Right.
Because there's nothing innocent about the way he's looking at me right now.
Or the way my entire body is humming with awareness of his proximity.
But I let him guide me back to the workspace, where we resume the careful process of assembling pies. Rolling dough, filling crusts, crimping edges with the kind of attention to detail that speaks to genuine artistry.