Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Jesse

C ompared to the resignation and sadness from when I found Tallula down here rummaging in the fridge, her eyes are bright like me joining her in this little late-night escapade gave her a hit of excitement. "Okay, first we need aprons. It's a messy job."

"But we're in our pajamas. They're glorified whatever-wear—meaning we can be as slovenly as we want in them."

"Hmm. I do recall you wearing a pair to an all-school assembly once and having to do detention."

"You remember that?"

"I was in the office when Principal Mohar called you in. You wore the scowliest scowl I'd ever seen."

"Sounds about right back then." Huh, so she does remember me.

"We don't want our pajamas to get covered in flour." In a tall cabinet, she finds an apron with giant pieces of fruit and frills along the hem that looks like it was hand-sewn in the 1980s. She holds it in front of me as if seeing if it'll fit.

"I'm not wearing that."

"It's vintage." Tallula waggles her eyebrows.

"That doesn't sweeten the deal."

"Moink and I have matching aprons. Don't we, little miss?" She wiggles her fingers toward the sink and I only just now see a dog sitting on the mat in front of the cabinets.

"Why would a dog need an apron?"

"To match her mommy," Tallula answers as if that wasn't obvious.

"Do you do much baking?"

"Not since I was last in Hogwash," she says with a sad tinge to her voice that I can't quite place.

Rubbing my hands together, I say, "Well, let's do this."

Tallula gathers the ingredients and has me hunting for various bowls and a rolling pin. When we amass everything we need, she takes a deep breath, and like a surgeon about to start a procedure, she says, "Spatula."

As she adds the dry ingredients to a bowl and then mixes the wet before combining them all, I can't deny that I'm watching her rather than the secret recipe. Most of the time, Tallula seems "on," like the camera is always recording her. However, right now, she appears relaxed, as if she muted whatever soundtrack usually plays in the background of her life, giving her the freedom to laugh and speak openly.

After all the whisking and mixing, Tallula says, "Okay, time to knead then the dough rests."

She demonstrates the push, fold, pull motion and then insists I try. I must look like I got my hands on a giant ball of Silly Putty because she bites her lip and shows me again. When I still don't get the rhythm, she places her hands over mine.

Something stirs inside of me, and I tell myself it's a craving since my dinner consisted of vending machine snacks from the town hall while I filed my reports earlier.

She shifts closer to me and our hips bump. Warmth slides through me—it's not the same kind as being fully kitted out on a hot summer day or coming back from a five-mile run.

Her arms overlap mine and I can tell the position is awkward since she's shorter and smaller than me. Biting her lip and scarcely meeting my eyes, she ducks under my arm and is now between them, positioned in front of me. I inhale her sugar-sweet scent. It transports me to a vision of another life—one where we're a couple, this is our kitchen, and this late-night baking activity will result in a kiss.

With her hands on mine, showing me the kneading motions, she says, "You're getting the hang of it."

And thinking things that are so out of reach, I may as well be trying to bake on my own—that would likely result in an oven fire.

However, I have to admit that the proximity right now has me toasty warm all over.

Tallula peeks over her shoulder. Our gazes meet. Her blinking slows and her lips part ever so slightly. I turn into dough. Total mush. This woman could ask anything from me and I'd do it. For a tenth of a second, I replay the kiss we shared all those years ago, telling me what I want most right now, but does she?

As our eye contact lingers a little longer, something shifts between us. My brain seems to sync to a different frequency like a radio finding a signal. The static in my head gets quiet, but before I can identify the song or station, Tallula turns back to the dough.

After we let it rest for ten minutes, she rolls the dough into a large rectangle. I'm in charge of painting on the butter—around her, I feel like butter. All melty and warm. Next, we sprinkle on the cinnamon sugar before rolling it into a long log, making slices, and then putting the buns into a muffin tin.

"Explain how these are beignets."

"They're a variation. Part traditional beignet because of the dough ingredients, and part cinnamon bun because of the cinnamon sugar and the spiral shape."

I incline my head, not quite following.

"You know how cruffins are part croissant and part muffin?"

"No, I don't."

Her lips curve upward. "Just trust me on this."

While we let them rise a little longer, we'll use the stand mixer to make what Tallula calls the "Glaze."

"I thought beignets were coated in powdered sugar," I volunteer.

"They do. But this is my Granny's version. Remember, they're beignet-cinnamon bun hybrids. Just wait and see."

I can't help myself. "In that case, I thought cinnamon buns had frosting."

"Icing, glaze, frosting, same thing. Just a little drizzle will do." Tallula measures the vanilla and pours it into the bowl.

"Is that like how cinnamon rolls and cinnamon buns are the same thing?"

"Sure. Except technically, they're all distinct, but let's not split spun sugar."

I chuckle, taking that to mean Let's not split hairs . "I'm not about to argue, but when the time comes to frost them, I'll insist on dabbing my frosting on instead of drizzling. There's nothing delicate about frosting on a cinnamon roll."

She gasps as if I broke the cardinal cinnamon roll rule. "You can't dab drizzle on a beignet bun."

"How about dollop?" A smile breaks through my lips because mostly I'm razzing her, hoping to earn a laugh.

"No, they get a slight coating." She flicks the off button on the stand-up mixer and inspects the contents of the big bowl.

"What if I like a big slab of frosting on my baked goods?" I pour in more powdered sugar to thicken it up, sending a white cloud up from the mixer.

Tallula stops the mixer. "You can't break the recipe rules."

"But you're breaking all the rules. Beignets are fried like doughnuts. Cinnamon rolls are practically like cake and baked."

"These are my beignet buns, mister." She wields a whisk in my direction.

"Those were the magic words." I swipe a blob from the bowl onto my finger and say, "What if I dab this on—?" I boop it onto the end of her nose.

Eyes crossing adorably, Tallula says, "You can't do that."

I lick the remaining frosting off my finger.

She watches me like she wouldn't mind allowing herself to have a spoonful.

"I can't do what?" I chuckle. "I can and I did, and this is delicious." Distracted by how good it is, I don't notice until it's too late when Tallula places two dots of the goop on my cheeks.

"Who's breaking the rules now? I could arrest you for that," I say playfully as she scoots to the other side of the table.

Wearing a massive grin, she says, "Come get me."

We race around the kitchen table with Moink at our heels. Obviously, I'm not trying to apprehend a suspect, so I take it easy until I catch up with Tallula in the living room. She trips on the throw rug and careens forward. I slip into protector mode and reach for her before she collides with the coffee table.

Safe in my arms, we're both breathing heavily—our chests mere inches apart. It might sound silly, but I want to kiss her beauty mark...then her lips.

"You okay?" I ask .

"Thanks for the rescue."

"Anything for you, Princess."

She arches an eyebrow. "Anything except calling the frosting glaze."

"Except that, but you admit it." And I admit that having her this close, snug in my arms, is sweeter than any icing, glaze, or frosting.

Moink lets out her squeaky little squeal as if reminding us of our location, the time, and circumstances.

I slowly bring us to a full and upright position, not eager to let go.

"We'd better get those rolls in the oven," Tallula says as if coming to her senses.

It's well past my bedtime since I have duty in the morning, but I want nothing more than for the next hour to creep by.

Tallula and I chat in the kitchen about Hogwash, past and present, as the timer counts down the minutes until the beignet buns are done and this night will be over.

After pulling them out of the oven, she says, "This is top secret. No one can know that you so much as witnessed me making this recipe. My grandmother would disown me. If she hasn't already. I really need to go visit her," Tallula says as if making a confession.

I crash from the sugar high because I take this to mean she doesn't want anyone to know about our time together much like the motorcycle ride.

"Since you ruined the glaze, I guess we'll have to just slather this stuff on." Tallula's tone sounds resigned, but her wide eyes and the way she swallows like she's anticipating the biggest bite ever, tells me she's finally giving in to what she wants.

Too bad it isn't me.

The frosting melts into the plump dough, but it's still thick and the perfect complement to the light yet buttery, cinnamon-infused pastry.

Tallula closes her eyes after she takes a bite. Her lips tip upward in a big smile. I take a mental snapshot because she looks like herself, unguarded, and happy.

"I have to admit, these are the best beignet buns I've ever had."

"And the only ones."

"You should know that I consider myself a beignet and cinnamon roll connoisseur. Just never at the same time."

"Is that so?" she asks with a laugh.

"A professional, but seriously, you should sell them at the Coffee Loft."

Tallula jumps to her feet and squeals. Moink joins her. This time, she does throw her arms around me. The hug is like the reverse of us kneading the dough and more intentional than when I caught her after slipping on the rug in the living room.

She presses against me, all warm and soft—everything missing from my life. Everything I don't deserve.

Tallula's embrace is like a warm blanket after a lifetime of cold. But when she drops her arms, she hops away as if she forgot to put on the oven mitt and touched a hot pan with her bare hands .

"I just meant that is an amazing idea. My mind is buzzing. I have to be up in five hours. Okay, okay. I'm going to brainstorm in the morning, but wow. Thank you, Jesse."

I've sailed the spectrum of being told I'm useless and worthless to being genuinely thanked for helping out in the community—Mrs. Halfpenny notwithstanding. But Tallula's expression of gratitude hits different. It gets me right in the chest.

"Don't mention it," I say.

She makes a lip-zipping motion like this is our little secret. Thankfully, Thelma sleeps soundly, otherwise, she'd be spilling the tea tomorrow about our little rendezvous. And if I don't go to sleep soon, I'm liable to spill mine all over my uniform.

But when I get in bed, I can't stop thinking about Tallula and her beignet buns.