She gave a laugh. “How about I teach you to make them? Pancakes were the first thing I learned to make, but I have a recipe for Swedish pancakes that are so thin you can see through them and so light they’re like a taste of heaven.”
He tossed the towel onto one of the stainless steel islands and rubbed his hands together. “Sounds wonderful. Where are the instructions?”
She tapped her temple. “First lesson—a chef learns to memorize recipes.” She glanced at the sweat drying on his skin—on his muscular forearms and chest. She licked her lips and turned to get him an apron. She needed some of that temptation covered up. “Wash up. And put this on.”
Surprisingly, Ahmed followed her instructions. After he’d washed, he picked up the apron and stared at it. Taking it from him, she draped the top loops over his head and let it drop down. Walking behind him, she grabbed the ties and tied it loosely behind him. She smiled as she breathed in his spicy scent.
Memories of his fingers sliding over her skin, of him buried inside her, flashed into her, washing heat through her.
Shaking her head to clear her wayward thoughts, she stepped back to the counter.
She had Ahmed pull out flour, eggs and the spices she wanted, including fresh ground vanilla bean and cardamom. She pulled down mixing bowls and set the heat under a flat pan on the stove. She was surprised how well they worked together, how companionable this was. How nice. She warned herself not to trust the feeling.
She was used to doing things on her own, had been for a long time. That was what happened when you didn’t have parents or siblings close by. That was what happened when you went to culinary school and learned how competitive the world could be. She’d been doing fine on her own. It didn’t matter to her if Ahmed was or wasn’t marrying someone else. She would be on her own again.
But this was still a moment of joy.
Ahmed glanced at the batter he’d made and frowned. “How do you know when it’s ready?”
“Taste…and texture.”
She took the spoon from him and stirred. “We don’t want any bubbles, but you want a smooth consistency. Thin but not too thin.” She glanced at him. “Kind of like traditional but not too traditional.”
He smiled, his dark eyes lightening. “This isn’t so hard.”
“Yeah, well, let’s see if you burn the first pancake or not.”
He stood close, his shoulder brushing hers, as she showed him how to pour the batter. Her heart was thudding again, and her upper lip dampened with sweat. Not from the stove. She liked the small frown that pulled his eyebrows flat and tight. She liked the way he lifted his head as if that would let him see better. She liked that he was interested.
With a shock, she realized she liked Ahmed. A lot more than she should.
The image of them doing this back in New York at her apartment on a Sunday morning flashed into her head. But that wasn’t ever going to happen. He had his world, she had hers, which meant a business to run. And he…well, she didn’t know what he did, maybe he was just a playboy. And maybe if he didn’t get married, they’d see each other once in a while. But domestic bliss…well, just not happening.
“Is that all there is to it?” he asked, staring at the pan as the pancakes started to brown.
“It’s no mystery. It’s about paying attention and the hard part is simply watching and waiting for the pancakes to be perfect. No…don’t turn them too early. You want one turn each.” She showed him how to turn the pancakes, putting her hand over his.
Reaching up, she grabbed a plate. “And you eat not just with your mouth—you want the eyes and the nose involved.” Working fast, she pulled out mint and raspberries, lemon and sugar and cinnamon. She whipped cream with a whisk, added the sugar, a squeeze of lemon and cinnamon, and showed him how to plate. “The mint’s a garnish, a touch of scent and green. The raspberries are better than any syrup—you just crush them lightly—and I wish we had some lingonberries, but these will do.” Stepping back, she admired the plate. Four golden, crisp Swedish pancakes, a dollop of whipped cream, a drizzle of the crushed raspberries, with a couple added next to the mint. It looked appealing even to her.
Inspiration struck, and she added a light dash of fresh ground ginger—an exotic touch—over the whipped cream. They headed for one of the stainless steel islands—not the one that held his sweaty towel—and she offered him a fork. She watched as he took his first bite. His dark eyes lit up.
“Good?” she asked.
He nodded and took another bite. “Better than good. And now I can cook for myself.” He smiled and looked ridiculously satisfied with himself.
She ate a few bites as well. She really didn’t have much appetite, but the pancakes had come out beautifully. And the touch of ginger on the whipped cream added a bite that complemented the creaminess.
They finished eating, and she took the plates to the dishwasher.
Ahmed pulled off his apron and came over to her. “You have taught me something. Now I need to teach you in return. What is something you’ve wanted to learn but have never taken the time for?”
She glanced around the kitchen. She had prep work and menus to work on, but wasn’t this another way to delay the wedding? She started to wonder if Ahmed had maybe hired the guy who had approached her. After all, a guy who wanted to blow up his own wedding wouldn’t be shy about delaying it as well to get more time to make things go wrong.
But Ahmed took her hand and urged, “Come on, there must be something.”
“Self-defense,” she said, blurting out the word. “I’ve always wanted to learn, but I’ve never taken a class.”
Ahmed rubbed his closely cropped beard with his free hand. He didn’t let go of her fingers with the other. “Okay, I can show you a few things.” He pulled her with him. She dragged her feet a little, but he only glanced back, grabbed his towel and said, “Come on. We need the gym and mats in case you manage to flatten me.”