Page 45 of The Catch

She stares at me like I'm suspicious.

"I'm just trying to be a good student." I grin, letting my flirty side take full control again. "I love winning, and I love praise."

I'll give in to that side for only a minute. No harm done.

"I'll remember that," she says.

Color blooms on her face. She licks her bottom lip.

I wave a metal sheet on top of the cake to make it cool a bit faster. "You'll praise me, then?"

"If you do well."

"I'll earn it."

She fans her face with a hand at the same speed I use to cool down the bake. She stops after only a couple of times, like she just remembered we're being filmed.

"We'll see." She clears her throat. "Now pass me that cake, and we'll get going with the pionono."

"Give us instructions while you do it, please," Mark says.

She takes the cake out of the pan and onto a clean dishcloth, talking us through it. We put layers of ingredients on top, and she adds little tips and pieces of historyto the dish. She tells me this cake has many names across Latin America, and each country has its own recipes. A preference for sweet or savory versions. Without missing a beat, she rolls the sheet cake carefully, keeping all layers intact.

"The rolling looks difficult," I say.

"The dishcloth helps support the process." She smiles. "Just make sure to do it when it's still warm to the touch, but not burning. Do you want to finish the last bit?"

She helps me. With her hands on mine, she guides me through the right motion. I'm caught on how her hands look on mine— just a smidge lighter tone, and appearing small against my large ones. Long lines that look delicate against my thick fingers. They're designed for gentle and confident touches. The kind that I would welcome all over my skin, letting her explore my body to her heart's content, melting me to an aching puddle of want.

If I'm not careful, just the fantasy will liquify me. The way my blood warms up, it's a real possibility. Yet I need her hands on mine, and this is as good an excuse as any.

"Yeah, like that," she says. "It's a little fragile. Soft hands and firm fingers, now."

"Yes, ma'am."

She laughs. "Don't get distracted."

"Too late."

"Right, well, you're doing a good job." She takes her hands away. "Why don't you finish that up? This is the perfect time for some yerba mate."

I mourn the loss of her touch, but she acts like this is all part of the show. She finds a kettle and fills it with water. I glance at her, mostly because I can't help myself.

"This is great," Mark pipes up. "Keep it up."

I take a slow, deep breath, and busy myself organizing and cleaning up. We're being recorded and I keep forgetting. Good thing she keeps me in line. I need her to remind me where those are, or I'll start coloring all over the page.

She comes back to the cooking station with a jar full of chopped dry leaves and small wooden pieces. In her other hand, she carries a small gourd rimmed in silver, and what looks like a metal straw with a flattened, sealed end.

She opens the jar and offers it to me. "Have you ever had mate? Notice the smell."

It's like dried grass and tea and something unique.

"Mhh." I give it back to her. "No, I haven't."

She pours some of the yerba in the gourd, angling it to create a hill against the side. "It's one of my favorite traditions from back home. It carries lore and customs— things you need to do to drink it right, like this."

She places the metal straw in the gourd at an angle.