The Boiling Point | ✔️

16 | full moon

ASHTON

Someone says my name in the distance, swirling through my unconscious mind in repetition. I ignore it.

"Ashton!"

They sweep my hand from under my chin, head dropping with a heavy thump on the desk.

"Fuck! What the--"

Chef Kent comes into focus as I rub my forehead, her eyes wide and piercing. "Oh, I'm sorry, Sleeping Beauty. Did I interrupt your nap?"

I grumble and glance around at the rest of the class watching my rude awakening. Nick facepalms as Chef Kent snatches my test away, adding it to her collected stack.

"Did you even finish? Honestly, Ashton, I'd expect a scholarship student to approach test taking more seriousl..." Her voice trails off, eyes flitting across my thorough answers. "Hm."

Words swallowed, she gives me the side-eye and moves on. Once all the tests are safely tucked away in her desk drawer, she tells us that our results will be ready next week.

"Now quickly go get changed. Chef Ross is waiting for you in the kitchen."

I'll never admit this out loud, but baking doesn't come naturally to me. At least, not as naturally as cooking does. It's so precise and constraining. One minor mistake and the whole thing can go south. For example, take the mille-feuille we made the other day.

Puff pastry is a delicious but cruel bitch, a never-ending process of folding, rolling, and waiting. And so-called "simple" custard is all good and well until you end up with a pot full of lumpy goop. Of course, I didn't show how much I hated it all. I pulled it together to make it look good enough. The taste was another story.

But Summer? Well, Chef Ross practically bust a nut when he tasted the slices she presented him, raving about the perfect buttery layers and creamy custard. It took a lot for me to brush away the green-eyed monster sitting on my shoulder that day.

Ever since I word-vomited all that stuff to Nick, I've been holding off whenever I get that itch to provoke her. Trying to edge my way onto her good side.

I thought we were making a little headway that day our partnership was solidified over boiling eggs, but now? No dice. She hasn't expressed her annoyance with me, she hasn't expressed her baking superiority, she hasn't expressed anything. Not one smile or a signature eye roll thrown my way. Nada.

I watch Summer sprinkle flour over the bread dough in front of her, diving into the smooth kneading technique Ross demonstrated. Every move she makes is intuitive.

Damn, did she work in a bakery or something?

I smack my ball of dough down and subtly replicate her.

"So, how'd you find the test?" I ask after a few minutes.

Her kneading doesn't waver for a second. "I'm not in the mood to listen to you gloat about how easy it was, Ashton."

"I wasn't going to gloat."

"Sure."

I grimace and squash the dough, along with the urge to add a comment about the test being a cake walk.

Summer balls her dough up and places it in a bowl. "But I guess it was good for a first test."

She unfolds a dish towel and covers the bowl, getting ready to leave our workstation. The next urge comes up, not to gloat, but to cut to the chase on the information I've wanted to get from her all week.

"It's Friday tomorrow."

She pauses. "And your bread will never rise if you keep pummeling the dough like that."