Page 39 of The Ruse of Romancing

Dani

After Allen’s incredible surprise of taking me to Powell’s Books, I decided I needed to do something in return.

However, instead of finding a museum and taking him to an art exhibit or something equally easy and reasonable, I’d decided sourdough was a good idea.

Though it wouldn’t quite be ready when he came over tonight, I could still tell him what I was doing, or surprise him with the loaf tomorrow morning.

I’d made sourdough once since Joane’s lessons and, while not the best loaf of bread ever made, it had turned out decently. So of course, the next step was to make a loaf for the man I was trying to impress.

Unfortunately, Dough-ris Day had not gotten the memo that we were supposed to be impressing someone.

Which probably had more to do with my distracted thinking throughout the day before than it did with my sourdough starter failing me, but it made me feel better to place the blame on someone, or something, that was not me.

But as I’d fed my starter, then mixed up and fermented my dough around writing sprints, I’d allowed my mind to wander back to Allen’s words of encouragement, words that had genuinely been fueling my most productive writing day yet.

And while I knew I shouldn’t depend on outside validation to inspire me, for now it wasn’t hurting.

Because with each word I wrote, his voice echoed in my mind, cheering me on as I proved to myself that I did know how to do this a second time, no matter what the haters and doubters said.

Unfortunately, this twitter-pated writing haze had resulted in my losing track of the number of times I’d stretched and folded my dough, making the structure less than ideal as I got ready to shape the dough before baking.

Technically the dough wouldn’t be ready to bake until tomorrow, so maybe things would fix themselves as it fermented one more time overnight in the fridge.

As I attempted to laminate my dough, it was wetter and stickier than I remembered.

I couldn’t get it off my fingers as I attempted to stretch it across the counter without ripping, the process taking longer than planned.

Muttering to myself, I dipped my fingers in a glass of water I’d set on the counter to help keep the dough from sticking to my fingers.

When she’d talked me through making sourdough, Joane had taught me the trick while warning me against adding too much flour to my dough.

The problem was, what was I supposed to do when the dough was already so wet and sticky?

As the dough became more unmanageable, I decided I needed more flour, regardless of Joane’s warnings.

I washed off my hands, wincing at the large clumps of dough disappearing down the disposal, and grabbed my bag of flour from the pantry.

For some reason, I’d decided I would be so into sourdough that I needed the biggest bag at the grocery store, a decision I was regretting now.

Hefting the bag into my arms, I walked back to the counter, muttering to myself about the frustrations of sourdough when my toe caught on the kitchen rug.

As I tried not to fall, my grip on the flour bag slipped, and the open bag hit the floor. Flour exploded all over me and the kitchen, dusting everything, myself included, in a fine coat of white and I bit back a curse.

Flour floated through the air, just as a knock came from the door.

“Just a minute,” I yelled toward the front door, then I evaluated my surroundings.

The sink was full of dirty dishes from my bread-making attempts.

The floor looked like there had been a snowstorm in the kitchen.

And the counter was covered in the sad, sticky remains of dough that looked like anything but a beautiful, appetizing loaf of artisan bread.

I fought back the tears, determined that crying once on this trip was more than enough as I determined the fastest way to get myself and the kitchen clean before Allen saw the disaster. Just as I decided to start by cleaning myself off, I heard the front door open.

“Dani? I thought I heard you say come in. I hope you don’t mind—” Allen broke off as he stepped into the kitchen and took in the scene. “Um... wow.”

I could only imagine what I looked like in the midst of the chaos of the kitchen: my hair falling out of a claw clip, flour covering my clothes, face, and arms, a look of absolute frustration pinching my features.

Needless to say, it was not my finest moment, nor would I have chosen to share this exact moment with the man I was falling for.

Especially not after all the vulnerability and emotions of yesterday.

“Surprise,” I said, half-heartedly raising my hands in a weak attempt at jazz hands, even as the full force of my failure hit, and tears started to fall.