Chapter Nine

Casey had to admit that Dev's method of making tart crust was a lot more enjoyable than the way his father had declared was the only way to do it. For one thing, Dev had been standing at Casey's shoulder, murmuring, "Pulse. Pulse. Again." until the flour and butter had reached the correct consistency.

While Casey had visions of other ways he'd like to pulse with Dev, he couldn't help the little bloom of satisfaction when they'd wrapped the dough in plastic and set it to chill. It had looked exactly like his dad's dough and had taken much less time and effort.

"Now," Dev said as he closed Peach's fridge door. "How are your knife skills?"

Casey gestured to the knife block with a flourish. "Sylvia has actually given me a passing grade—not an A, but a B+—so I feel like I can meet your expectations."

Dev's soft smile perked Casey's cock up again, right after he'd gotten it under control from all the pulse-ing. "The only expectations I've got are for you to have a good time. Is it working?"

I'll tell you how I could have a good time…But Casey nodded rather than blurting out inappropriate comments.

"Good. Could you fill that bowl halfway with ice and top it off with cold water?"

Casey hefted the big ceramic bowl. "What does that have to do with knife skills?"

"Nothing yet. But after I dunk the peaches in boiling water and then into the ice bath, I'll slide off their skins and you're going to slice them. Think you can manage?" Dev waggled his eyebrows.

Although slide and skin conjured up images hotter than the boiling water, Casey lifted his chin and gave Dev a wink. "Just watch me."

Give Casey a specific task with a defined purpose and a measurable result and he had no problem, especially if he had a chance to practice. The ice-water bath was ready by the time Dev lifted the first of the peaches out of the hot water.

"Look at this." Dev scooped the peach out of the bowl, and with a few swipes of his big, deft fingers, removed the skin and handed the peach to Casey. "Voila."

"Wow. That's amazing."

"Same thing works with tomatoes. You never did that?"

"My father never trusted me near boiling water. Or tomatoes. Probably with good reason." Casey set the peach on the cutting board. "How thin should the slices be?"

"Maybe a quarter of an inch or so?"

Casey eyeballed the peach, nicking its flesh at about a quarter of an inch and slowly carved off a neat section, rather proud of himself until he looked up and caught Dev's dumbfounded expression. "What? You said a quarter of an inch." He pointed with the tip of the knife. "That's a quarter of an inch. Get a ruler and I'll prove it."

"I said a quarter of an inch or so. Rustic tarts, Casey, remember? There's no need for pinpoint accuracy. I think these are freestone peaches, so split 'em in half and slice each half into six or so crescent-shaped sections, okay?"

Still inclined to be a little defensive, Casey muttered, "If you say so." But he did as instructed, hoping Dev was serious about that or so and that Casey wouldn't be judged on precision, because peaches were dang slippery and his sections were not identical by any stretch of the imagination.

But Dev just grinned and said, "Perfect. Now dump 'em in that bowl with a little lemon juice while we roll out the crust."

Casey's nerves returned as he squeezed half a lemon over the peaches. The only time he'd tried rolling out any dough in the kitchen at home, his father had yelled at him, taken the rolling pin to Casey's backside, and ordered him to his room.

Get over yourself, Friel. Nothing else has been like Dad's kitchen, so why should this?

Dev retrieved the dough from the fridge and, on the lightly floured marble counter, cut it into four parts with a bench knife. "I'll wrap two of these up and stick 'em in the fridge while you roll that one out."

"Right." Casey's hand trembled as he grabbed the rolling pin. I don't even know where to start. Hoping for the best, he placed the rolling pin on the top of one dough ball and rocked it back and forth, making a little valley. The sight of the wooden cylinder cradled between two dough mounds… Gah! Why does everything in this damn kitchen make me think about sex?

"Casey?" Dev peered at him from across the bench, which didn't help, since Dev was the main thing in the kitchen that made him think about sex. "Haven't you ever done this before?"

He huffed out a breath. "Not really. I'm more or less a rolling pin virgin since the only other time I tried it, I never achieved"—heat rushed up his throat—"um…"

Dev lifted an eyebrow. "Completion?"

Casey let go of the rolling pin and flailed. "I'm sorry. I just don't want to screw it up. I mean, the peaches smell really good. What if I ruin everything? I doubt even Randolph Scott will eat charred fruit tarts."

"Don't bet on it. But also, don't worry about it. We've got the dough for four tarts. They're not gonna be big." He held up one palm. "About the size of my hand. If we mess up one, we've got three other chances to get it right."

"It's kind of you to say we, but I think we both know that any failures will be totally on my end."

"Then let me help." He motioned for Casey to move closer to the counter. "Put your hands on the balls and bear down. Press 'em down into a flatter disk." Casey did, trying not to think about balls. Or bearing down. "Good. Now pick up the rolling pin."

"I don't know. That might be dangerous. Isn't this the weapon of choice in most cartoon kitchen altercations? Maybe you should don a saucepan helmet, just to be safe."

Dev grinned. "I'll take my chances. Go ahead."

Casey gingerly lifted the rolling pin, laid it on one of the dough disks, and moved it back and forth a couple of times with no apparent effect.

"Don't be so tentative. Grab the handles in a tight, firm grip. Like you mean it."

All these smooth roundhard objects are giving me ideas that are so not appropriate for food preparation. Nevertheless, Casey took hold of the handles, forcing himself not to imagine how much better Dev's cock would feel.

"Work from the center out. You don't have to be shy. Quick, hard strokes. The dough likes it a little rough." Dev moved behind Casey and placed his hands over Casey's on the rolling pin. "Like this."

He guided Casey to press down hard and quick. But despite the distraction of Dev's big body, solid and warm at his back, Casey couldn't help being enchanted by the smooth, round disk growing under the rolling pin.

"I'm doing it!" Well, technically, Casey was along for the ride, but the result was right there for anyone to see.

"Yup. I like rolling out the dough on the marble board because when you can see the veining through the dough, you know it's thin enough. Tart pastry can be a little thicker than pie crust, so we don't have to go too crazy. This one looks good. Now the other. Ready to go solo?"

Casey bit his lip and peered up at Dev through his lashes. Okay, so I'm going to hell. The journey will be worth it. "Maybe show me one more time?"

"My pleasure."

They shaped the second crust too quickly for Casey's liking. He heaved a tiny disappointed sigh when Dev stepped back, but now he was invested. This was farther than he'd ever gotten in his father's kitchen, and he wanted to see how these turned out.

"How about we each take one of these and lay the fruit out?" Dev said. "You can follow my lead until you get the hang of it."

Casey wanted to ask if Dev would guide him in handling the slippery fruit, but that would be pathetic, and he'd already risked eternal damnation by asking for unnecessary rolling pin assistance. "All right."

"Start in the center, making a little spiral. See? That's why we wanted them crescent shaped. The slices can spoon up against each other. Keep going until you're about an inch and a half, two inches from the edge."

Despite the suggestive spooning, Casey concentrated on laying out the peach slices neatly. And really, it wasn't hard. Their shapes were conducive to the circular dough disks, and the brilliant orange peaches, their inner curves edged with bright red, were so pretty that he nearly forgot Dev was standing next to him.

Okay, so maybe he wouldn't go that far, but he could admit to a surge of satisfaction when his tart didn't look too different from Dev's.

"Alright, now we'll pinch 'em."

"Pinch? Why?" Casey lowered his voice. "Have they been… bad?"

Dev smirked. "Pinching isn't always bad."

Did Dev's gaze flick to Casey's chest? Probably just my imagination.

"So, good pinching. Got it. Why?"

"We're creating the edge to keep the fruit contained while the tarts bake. Slide your fingers underneath and raise the edge. Then pinch the dough between your fingers to keep it up."

"Slide, raise, pinch. Keep it up. Got it," Casey muttered, although keeping certain things down was becoming more difficult. Was Dev using suggestive descriptions on purpose?

"Then we'll brush 'em with cream, give 'em a hit of raw sugar, and they'll be ready to go."

He's totally doing it on purpose. However, Casey gritted his teeth and carried on. Ten minutes later, the four tarts were in the oven.

"They won't take too long." Dev washed his hands at Peach's sink and dried them on one of Sylvia's ubiquitous tea towels. "We'll check 'em in about twenty minutes. I'll set the timer, but since we're not working from a recipe, we should probably hang out here and keep an eye on them."

Casey nodded as he washed and dried his own hands. "Working without a recipe. Isn't that like walking a tightrope without a net?"

Dev chuckled. "Nothing so risky. Besides, how do you think people develop their dishes? Trial and error, plus a little knowledge about food chemistry and flavors."

Casey's dad had always made it seem so much more… mystical. As though nobody should be allowed near a kitchen who hadn't been blessed by the food gods. He settled on a tall stool next to Dev, where they had a clear view of the oven. "So you're a welder and a baker?"

"And the town manager. Let's not forget that." Dev's expression turned a little bleak. "Lord knows nobody else ever does."

"If you don't want to be town manager, why do you run?"

"I don't."

Casey squinted at him. "Wait. You're not elected?"

"I didn't say that. I'm elected. I just don't run. It doesn't matter. Having a Harrison as town manager is a tradition that refuses to die, so every year on Town Meeting Day, they elect whichever Harrison happens to be on deck. At the moment, that's me."

"You could refuse to serve, you know."

Dev shook his head. "Who'd take care of the place then? My ancestors sacrificed to make the town a safe and welcoming place to anyone who didn't fit anywhere else. These days, it seems like we need that more than ever." He smiled wryly. "And it's up to me as the last Harrison in the line to figure out some way of saving Home."