Even though my stomach is knotted with anxiety over the broken mixer situation, I pick up the recipe. After pouring all the ingredients into a bowl, I use a wooden spoon to stir. But I’m a bit clumsy and get flour on my uniform.

When Pedro walks back into the kitchen, I ask, “What did your mother say?” The question comes out so fast, it sounds like one big word.

He grabs the apron he was wearing earlier and holds it out for me. I try to fasten it, but I’m so nervous, I keep dropping the strings.

“May I?” he says, offering to fasten it for me.

“S-sure.”

He stands behind me, carefully tying the apron around my waist for me, so gentle while I stand like a statue, my heart pounding at my ribcage.

“How do you manage to be so careless?” he mumbles. He then flexes his fingers toward the spoon and I hand it to him. “You’re going to hurt your wrist if you mix bread dough with a spoon. Use your hands.”

He looks at me like I’m a complete amateur. Well, I am, but I don’t want him to realize that!

“I know that. I was just distracted and picked up the spoon because... I wasn’t thinking.” I stick my hands in the bowl quickly, and my fingers sink into the batter. It’s like squeezing mud at first, but the more I knead, the batter slowly thickens.

Pedro sprinkles a dusting of flour on the counter. “Knead it on the counter now,” he instructs.

“But what did your mother—”

He gives me a pointed look, so I stop asking and transfer the dough to the counter, where I continue kneading. Pedro watches me for a while.

“Try folding it as you pull the batter toward you.”

I try to do as he says, and still he isn’t happy. He stands next to me, his shoulder touching mine, and takes a section of dough to show me how to properly fold it. Warmth travels through my body at our close proximity and I feel out of breath, but I press my lips together to hide the feelings bubbling up.

“I called my mother and said that she should go check in to see if Dona Alice is able to keep up with the order, because I heard rumors that your mixer broke.”

I look at him. “Rumors?”

“Isn’t that how our families communicate?” He shrugs. “I said she should go see if the rumors are true, because if they are, maybe we should let Dona Alice borrow our mixer, in case Mom wound up having to pick up her slack and still be paid for only half a job done.”

My heart feels like it’s about to burst with joy. Never in my life I thought I’d be so grateful to him. “I don’t even know what to say. Pedro, thank you.”