Page 37 of Faking it with my Bad Boy Crush

Maya

Thursday morning, Ethan showed up at the bakery at 6:15 AM—fifteen minutes early, as was becoming his habit. He carried two coffees and a determined expression that told me he'd been awake most of the night thinking.

I knew the feeling. I'd been awake too, replaying our text conversation, wondering what he meant byI'm starting to figure it out.

"Morning," I said, holding the door open. "You're early."

"I wanted to catch you before the morning rush." He handed me the coffee—large oat milk latte, perfectly made. "And I was hoping you'd teach me something."

"Teach you what?"

"How to make pastéis de nata. The real way." His blue eyes were serious. "Your great-great-grandfather's recipe. The one you perfected in Portugal."

I blinked, surprised. "Why?"

"Because it matters to you. Because it's part of your story. Because I want to understand what you sacrificed when you came home." He paused. "And because I'm trying to figure out who I want to be, and learning from you seems like a good place to start. And it’s delicious. That, too.”

My throat tightened. "That's... that's actually really thoughtful."

"I have my moments."

I led him to the prep station where I'd already laid out ingredients—flour, eggs, sugar, cream, cinnamon. The pastéis de nata station, as Tessa called it. My grandfather's legacy mixed with what I'd learned in Lisbon.

"Okay," I said, tying on my apron. "First lesson. This isn't just about following a recipe. It's about understanding each step. Senhor Costa—my master baker in Portugal—used to say that pastéis de nata are like relationships. They require patience, precision, and the willingness to start over if something goes wrong."

Ethan rolled up his sleeves. "Sounds complicated."

"It is. That's what makes them worth it." I pulled out the laminated dough I'd prepared yesterday—the foundation for the pastry shells. "This dough has been resting for twenty-four hours. You can't rush it. If you try to work with it too soon, the butter melts and the layers collapse."

"Patience," Ethan repeated, watching as I rolled out the dough.

"Exactly. Most people want instant results. They want to throw ingredients together and have something beautiful immediately. But the best things—the things that last—they take time."

We worked in silence for a few minutes, my hands guiding his through the delicate process of shaping the pastry shells, fitting them into the small tart molds.

"When did you learn this?" Ethan asked. "The technique."

"My grandfather taught me the basics when I was eight. After my father died, baking became our language. We couldn't always talk about the grief, but we could make bread together. Create something beautiful from simple ingredients." I shaped another shell, the motion automatic after years of practice. "Then at CIA, I learned the science—the chemistry, the physics, why techniques work. And in Portugal, I learned the soul of it. The reason these pastries have survived two hundred years."

"Because they're perfect?"

"Because they're imperfect in exactly the right way." I held up a finished shell—slightly uneven, the layers visible where the dough had folded. "See? Not flawless. But honest. Real. That's what makes them special."

Ethan studied the shell in my hands with the same intensity he probably used to read legal contracts. "You came home early from Portugal. That must have been difficult."

"It was." I set down the shell and started on the custard filling—eggs, cream, sugar, carefully heated to just the right temperature. "I'd only been there 7 months of my year there when my grandfather had his first stroke. He told me not to come home, that I should finish the year. But I couldn't. The thought of him in a hospital bed, alone, while I was learning to make pastries..."

"You chose family," Ethan said quietly.

"I chose what mattered." I stirred the custard, watching it thicken. "My mother was furious. She said I was throwing awayan opportunity people would kill for, that I was letting obligation ruin my career. But she didn't understand. It wasn't obligation. It was love."

"What happened when you came home?"

"My grandfather recovered from the first stroke. He was able to continue working and baking. We had more time together—good years, that was nice. I went back to Seattle, worked at Canlis, built the career everyone thought I should want. I came back to visit every chance I got." I poured the custard into the prepared shells. "But it felt hollow. Like I was living someone else's life."

Ethan was quiet, watching me work. "When did you know you wanted to come home permanently?"

"When he had the second stroke." My hands stilled. "I was at Canlis, in the middle of service, when my mother called. She said it was bad this time, that I should come if I wanted to say goodbye. I left immediately—didn't even change out of my chef's whites. Just drove to the ferry and came home."