Should I come early too?”
“We’ll decide based on how it goes today.”
Jason gives me a mock salute as he heads over to Bertha, the mega-pantry that holds the dry stock.
And I have to admit Kate is right.
His butt does look good in thousand-dollar jeans.
11
Jace
Nova watches me as I bend over a giant stainless-steel bowl, up to my elbows in a floury paste. So far, my first lesson in bread making has been a disaster. Both of my early attempts ended up in the garbage.
“Does this dough look right?” I ask.
I’m trying not to stare at her, although I could use the distraction from my failures. Her camo pants are pink today, and her round little ass juts out perfectly as she leans over the table to supervise my work. She has a dusting of flour on her nose.
“You haven’t screwed this one up—yet,” she says, her voice laced with annoyance. She’s so short, she has to stand on a stool to see over the edge of the bowl. “But it’s pretty wet.”
Now that gets my imagination going.
It doesn’t help that she sticks her hands inside the wad of dough next to mine. It’s like the pottery scene from Ghost. Warm, soft, malleable…
Nova’s hard voice cuts my fantasy short. “It’s not ready. Keep kneading.”
Dang. She’s a hard ass.
Our hands touch inside the dough and she jerks hers out so fast her plastic glove remains behind. “You’re on your own.” She reaches inside the bowl and tugs out the errant glove, refusing to meet my gaze.
What just happened there?
“I don’t think I can do it alone.”
She’s angry at me, I guess due to my incompetence, and waves the glove in my face. “You think I knew how to make bread when I got here? Learn, Peckerwood.”
“It’s Packwood.”
“You’re lucky I don’t call you limp biscuit!” She flounces out.
Damn, but I will never figure her out.
I keep squishing the dough. The first batch didn’t rise. Apparently putting the sugar on top of the yeast is a big no-no. The second batch got lumpy because the water I added was warm. Nobody told me the temperature mattered.
So far, this one is too wet and sticky. If I botch a third one, it’ll prove I’m incompetent to Nova. I’m determined to get this one right.
I knead the dough carefully. Not too much force. Not too little. I know it shouldn’t stick to my hands or the sides of the bowl.
It’s oddly relaxing, making bread. I can picture Grammy Alma doing it. Actually, maybe I can call Grammy about this.
No one’s currently in the kitchen, although Eli makes runs back and forth from Mr. Chill to the sandwich line. I bet I can get a quick call off.
It’s one-thirty in New York. The lunch rush should be settling down there. Grammy will take my call regardless, though.
I tug out my phone and hit the speed dial.
She answers on the second ring. “Baby J!” she calls. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say. “Is it crazy there?”
“Nothing Sunny and the crew can’t handle. What’s going on?”
“I’m at Austin Pickle, and I’m trying to make bread.”
Grammy laughs in a deep, low chuckle. “You? Making bread?”
“I know. I know. I’m trying to learn. But it keeps failing.”
“What’s it doing?”
“The first one didn’t rise.”
“You put sugar on top of the yeast?”
“Yeah.” Of course she’d know.
“The second?”
“Warm water.”
“Rookie mistake. What’s wrong with this one?”
“It’s too sticky. I followed the instructions.”
“What’s the humidity there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, check!”
I shift to a weather app. “Oh. One hundred percent.” I can’t see outside from here. “I guess it’s raining.”
“There you go. Slowly add a tablespoon of flour at a time to compensate for the extra moisture in the air.”
“How will I know when it’s enough?”
“It won’t stick, and it will start to make a little skin.”
“Okay.”
“Call me back if you run into more trouble.”
“Thanks, Grammy.”
“I’m proud of you. Good luck.” She hangs up.
Proud. I wonder when the last time a member of my family has said that to me.
I add a bit of flour to the dough and push it into the ball, then roll it forward like Nova showed me.
I used to be the favored son. The eldest. The pride and joy. Then I left for college, got into the scene there, and shifted gears. Quit caring so much. By then, Dad was funneling profits from his Manhattan Pickle into our accounts, so working didn’t matter. But when he started scouting for a location for Austin Pickle, I realized my future wasn’t my own.
I guess I rebelled.
I’m still