Page 22 of Storm in a Teacup (Love in Edinburgh #3)

“Good morning, coffee bean.”

She spins around to face me, hand on her heart. “Jesus, I didn’t expect anyone to be out here this early.”

“What’re you doing up in the wee hours of the morning?”

“I couldn’t sleep, so I figured I’d come down to get some work done. I’m heading to an estate sale later and won’t be in the shop for most of today. I have spreadsheets to organize.” As if evidence of her desire to spend the morning staring at a computer screen, she’s wearing her glasses.

“That’s ambitious.”

“What else have I got to do?”

I suggest, “Drink coffee in bed with your furry ball of pure love and terror and watch the news?”

“I was with you until you said, ‘watch the news.’ ”

“Eh, well, maybe you could come give me a hand in the kitchen instead?”

“You want me to ruin the food you sell to make a living?”

I nod.

“Sure. Why not?”

I open up the front doors, disable the alarm, then flip on the lights.

I don’t normally turn on all the lights up front this early, but Linny doesn’t need to know that.

I lead her toward the back to the kitchen, hanging my jacket on a hook next to the door and directing Linny to do the same.

I put on a white pinny, then offer her the extra one I have hanging beside mine.

I pull on plastic gloves, giving her a pair as well.

“What first?” she asks, pulling on her gloves.

“Croissants,” I answer, opening up the fridge to retrieve the dough I prepped yesterday and let chill overnight. “We’re going to roll it out, cut the dough, then roll the croissants up and let them sit for an hour or so before they bake.”

I drop the dough on the counter, then hand her a rolling pin. She takes one step toward the dough, but I halt her. “Sorry. Wait. Have you a hair tie?” Her long hair is down and loose around her shoulders, fiery and bright, but I can’t have those long strands making their way into my food.

Her fingers meet the ends of her hair. “Oh. No.” She goes to leave, holding the rolling pin out to me and saying, “I’ll go grab one.”

I halt her again with, “No need.”

I pop out of the kitchen, pulling off my gloves as I go, heading behind the counter to fetch a pink scrunchie from the bucket Isla keeps behind the counter.

I push back through the kitchen door. “Isla has an abundance of these. Mostly for Rachel. ”

Linny holds out her hand for me to give her the scrunchie, but I choose to stroll behind her to handle the hair myself. “You’ve still got those gloves on,” I say as an explanation. I gather her soft hair in my hands, fingers brushing her neck as I collect all the loose strands.

This is normal fake dating behavior, said no one ever . I see a visible chill run down her spine from the contact, my cock twitching at the reaction. Fuck, there he goes again. I quickly slip the scrunchie around her gathered hair, tightening it at the base of her neck so I can step away.

She clears her throat. “Thanks.”

Once again, my tadger is attempting to make himself known, but I am begging him to take it easy. In response, I say, “Your hair is wicked soft, Lin.” I clear my throat. “So, let’s roll the dough.”

She presses the pin into the dough, stretching it into a long rectangle as she goes. I watch over her shoulder.

“You need to put even pressure on it so it can all be the same width,” I say.

“Like this?” she asks, rolling again.

“More like”—I reach over her, caging her in as I place my hands over hers on the rolling pin—“this.” I press gently so that she will do the same, rolling the dough together until it reaches the size I want. “There we are,” I say, knowing I should retreat, but staying firmly put.

She angles her head up toward me, eyes radiant through her glasses and mouth so goddamn close to mine. “Are you making a move, Bennett Pyeon?” she teases. “Because it feels like you’re trying to teach me to play pool or hit a baseball.”

I bite the corner of my mouth as I release her and step back. “ No . I’m just far too controlling when it comes to this stuff.” I grab a rolling knife and step up next to her against the counter. “We need to cut the dough into equal-sized rectangles. I’ll do it.”

When I’m done, I pick up one rectangle and hold it up to her eye level. “Look at all those layers.”

“Those are some nice layers.”

“They are some beautiful layers.”

I slice the rectangles into triangles, then we roll them up together, starting with the top of the triangle and rolling in. We set them on the baking sheet.

“Like I said, they have to sit for an hour before we bake. Now, I move on to muffins. Want to help with those?”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m here. Free labor.”

I snort. “Naw, you’re here to keep me company.” I open the fridge to take out the frozen blueberries, tossing them at her. She catches the bag in one swift motion. “And for your free labor.”

“Can’t believe you don’t use fresh blueberries,” she says in mock astonishment.

“They’re more expensive than the frozen,” I explain. “Isla won’t let me buy fresh.”

I hand her my recipe card for the blueberry muffins. “These are simple if you want to get started on them, just follow my recipe. I’ll get to work on the double chocolate muffins.” I know my recipes by heart, so no need for a card for myself.

We split into two mixers, she creating her muffins and I creating mine as the oven heats up. When the oven is ready and all muffin batter is in the appropriate pans, we slide them in, one pan at a time.

I switch on another row of the oven so I can get the croissants baking soon.

“Next, banana loaf and cranberry scones. You take the loaf and I take the scones. ”

“How about I do the scones?”

I open my mouth, shocked silent, trying to figure out how to say hell no nicely before she laughs and says, “I’m kidding, Ben. Jeez, you are a control freak about this.”

“Oh, shush.” I get out the ingredients and a recipe card for the banana bread.

Linny finishes the loaf before I finish the scones, so she pours it into the correct pans, then watches me while I work.

I feel her eyes on me, and while I don’t mind, Iam buzzing under her gaze.

I knead the dough for a moment, just to get it to stick together before rolling it out.

When I’m done kneading, I give it a light slap on the top.

Linny snorts from behind me. “Who are you? Donut Daddy?”

I spin to her. “Now, who is Donut Daddy?”

“No one. Just a TikTok guy.” Her burning cheeks indicate otherwise.

“Show me.”

“No.”

“ Lin .”

She sighs, pulling out her phone. She pulls up a video of a striking man who is baking in a very sensual way.

“Jesus,” I say. “That is wildly attractive.”

“It is.”

“I could be a Donut Daddy.” I meet her eye. “I would thrive as a sexy baking influencer.”

“Sure, you would. Go sexy-bake your scones.”

The oven dings, signaling it’s at the correct temperature.

I indicate my head toward that ding. “Can you put the croissants in the oven?”

“Sure.”

She comes back and continues to watch me, baking perhaps a bit more sexily than I was before, now that I know where her standards lie.

“You do this by yourself every day?”

“Aye—for the most part. Scott is my backup baker. He handles things on Saturdays when I’m off and can throw something together when he’s here later in the day.

But all this in the morning most mornings, is me.

That’s why I get here so early, so I can have all this ready to go.

I mean, here’s the thing, there are corners I could cut.

Pre-made things I could buy and heat up, but what’s the fun in that?

I own a café, so I can bake whatever I want. I love it.”

“I’m glad. And you change what you make every day?”

I shape the scones on a baking sheet while I say, “Yeah. I mean, I have the standards like the croissants, the blueberry muffins, and the banana loaf, but I like to add some change-ups every day. Sometimes depending on supplies, sometimes depending on my wild whims.”

“I enjoy your wild whims.” The timer goes off for the muffins. “I’ll get them,” she says, finding my oven-mitts and pulling the muffin tins out of the oven one by one, sliding them onto the metal cooling rack. I swap places with her, putting the scones in the oven.

She comes back over to me, checking the time on her phone. “I should probably get over to the shop soon.”

“You don’t open for another two and a half hours,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. It’s half past seven. Her shop opens at 10 a.m.

“I told you, I have things to do. If Carolyn keeps buying every picture frame she sees, I will never get them all cataloged and priced. I also have to touch up the upholstery on this chair we bought in last week. ”

My shoulders sag, partially because that was a natural instinct and partially because I’m being dramatic. “Fine,” I sigh. I stand up straight. “Thanks for giving me a hand this morning.”

“It was fun,” she says. We stand there regarding each other for a moment before the bell of the opening front door shakes us out of it.

“That’ll be Isla,” I say.

Linny grabs her jacket off the hook next to mine, slipping it on and pulling the scrunchie out of her hair. “Think she’ll want this back?”

I shake my head. “You keep it.” She slips it around her wrist. I swerve around Linny to grab a cooling muffin, handing it over. “Take this.”

“Happily.” She holds the warm muffin with the tips of her fingers. “I’ll see you soon?”

“Count on it.”

After she leaves, I check my phone to see a text from Paul.

Paul, huh? Almost forgot we exchanged numbers.

PAUL: Hey, mate. Thinking about spending some time in Scotland after the wedding. You’re outdoorsy, right? Any hiking recs?

ME: Hey. Aye, I’ve an abundance of recs. What level we looking at?

PAUL: Low-medium. More than a trail, but not an all-day/overnight trek

ME: Gotcha

I send him a few links to trails that I like, offering a few details about my favorites. Paul’s a nice bloke. It’s too bad he lives in London. I’m not saying I’d pursue anything with him, but he’d be a good friend to have. It seems like we have a lot in common.

Speaking of friends, I switch over to my text thread with Linny.

ME: Do you fancy a hike?

OSCAR WILDE’S MOTHER: It’s been so long since we’ve spoken. Oh, how I have missed you

ME: Don’t be cheeky. Answer the question

OSCAR WILDE’S MOTHER: Sure. I like hiking

OSCAR WILDE’S MOTHER: I mean, nothing hardcore, but I don’t mind a steep hill or having to weave around fallen trees. I like a nice hike on a nice day

OSCAR WILDE’S MOTHER: Why? You don’t mean now, do you?

ME: Naw. Just curious

ME: What are your thoughts on mountain biking?

OSCAR WILDE’S MOTHER: I don’t trust me on a bike, but the concept of it is fine

I snort as I type my response.

ME: Fair

OSCAR WILDE’S MOTHER: Do you wear those tight little numbers when you mountain bike or is that just normal cycling?

ME: That’s more of a speed cycling thing. Why? You want me to?

OSCAR WILDE’S MOTHER: No, I really don’t. I’m not sure there’s a single person, even you, who could pull off that outfit

ME: I can pull off ANY outfit, thank you very much

ME: But next nice day, maybe we should go on a hike?

I gnaw my lip as I await her reply. I’m asking her as a friend and not even specifically asking. Just throwing out an open-ended suggestion. An open-ended suggestion that is ignoring our fake dating plan. Should I unsend the text? Before I can even attempt that, she responds.

OSCAR WILDE’S MOTHER: Not sure when that mythical nice day will come, but yeah. Why not?

I grin stupidly at my phone before I slide it aggressively down the counter. Enough of that for today.