Looking around at row after row of stainless steel counters and high grade commercial ovens, Killian Jones was wondering exactly how he found himself here. It had seemed like a brilliant idea at the time, the product of a late night drunkenly sprawled out on Will's floor, laptop on the coffee table and credit card in hand.
"Wha' could be better than loads of sweets, booze, and young, artsy, single women?" Will had asked, and his friend's logic at the time (combined with most of the contents of a large bottle of tequila and the harsh sting of dredged up memories of Milah and their brutal breakup) was flawless. What could be better indeed? After a good half hour of Will explaining to him, in vivid and explicit detail, exactly how creative an artsy, craftsy, woman could be, it had seemed like a no brainer to fill out the form and enter in his payment details for the both of them.
It turned out there were countless things that could be better, and certainly quite a bit that could be less humiliating.
Granted, Will's promise of sweets was sure to pan out given the nature of the event, and the booze was self-supplied by his trusty hip flask and therefore not a factor, but young, artsy, and single women were apparently not on the menu for the evening. He could, however, have his pick of both pre and postmenopausal women, a few bored, but definitely not single, housewives, and it appeared that cake decorating was a wonderful couple's activity.
"How did you talk me into this again, mate?" Killian eyes a stand up mixer speculatively, raising the head with one finger and letting it drop back down again with a dull thud. Nestled among the tall monstrous mixers, and stacks of large mixing bowls, was everything one could possibly need for the evening's planned activities.
"Fucked if I know," Will pokes a bag of confectioner's sugar. "But I must've been very convincing."
The slightly older, but pretty blonde instructor has already arrived, organizing her things on a counter at the head of the room, a large binder spread out before her, and he wonders if she would be too put out if he apologized and then promptly bolted from the room.
Was there even enough booze in his flask to get him through three hours of cheerful instruction about the best way to bake and decorate confectionary? Kilian gives the flask a shake through his jacket, trying to determine the volume, doing some mental math on the amount he'll need over time multiplied by his current level of humiliation.
The instructor looks up, smile ready, her eyes sweeping the assembled students. They land briefly on Killian and his partner in crime, widening in surprise and turning quickly to suspicion, before she clears her throat to address the class.
"Hello everyone!" Her voice has a whimsical breathless quality, light and cheerful, but somehow at the same time, firm and assured. "Just a few more minutes while I wait for my assistant to get here. While we wait, if everyone will take one of the markers on your stations and print your names on the cards provided so I can start memorizing them? I want to get to know each one of you." Every sentence seems to end on a whisper, her smile fixed in place as her eyes sweep the room.
She gestures with her hand, drawing their attention to the pile of markers and folded pieces of white card stock at the head of each station.
Killian grabs a marker, resigning himself to his fate. There was no backing out now, not only had she seen them already, the class had practically started and walking out on her now would be decidedly rude of them. He can survive this initial 3 hours, and they'll just give the remaining 3 sessions a miss, no harm, no foul. Will grumbles something down by his shoulder but follows his example, scrawling a name and a smirking smiley face on the card face in purple.
"Guess it's not all bad," Killian smiles sarcastically at his best friend. "We're learning a valuable and no doubt lucrative skill."
"Bloody useless though innit?" Will snorts and stands up his name plate. "When are we ever going to decorate a bloody cake?"
"A question I wish you had asked prior to convincing me to sign up for an entire course dedicated to doing just that." Killian bites out each word through clenched teeth, his voice fading off as the large double doors of the class kitchen swing open.
The woman who enters is a vision in a bright orange apron, her expression grim and determined, a ponytail of loose golden curls swinging out behind her as she strides purposefully across the room. Killian feels his heart stutter in his chest as he takes her in. She is lean, but shapely, in a soft, curve-hugging sweater and black leggings, a pair of no nonsense boots stopping just at her knees and emphasizing the slim contour of her thighs. He swallows. She is quite possibly one of the loveliest women he has seen in months, years even, and suddenly the class doesn't seem like such a terrible idea after all.
"Well that's interesting," Will murmurs and Killian can't help but whole heartedly agree tongue pressing into his cheek, as she takes her place next to the instructor whispering a hurried apology to the older woman while distractedly reaching for a marker and a piece of cardstock.
"Okay, now that everyone is here, let's get started shall we? My name is Ingrid of Cakes by Ingrid, and I'll be your instructor in this course for the next 4 weeks," she motions to the woman who has just finished writing on the card, and he can read Emma Swan in no nonsense blocky script as she stands it on the counter before her. "This is my assistant, Emma, and Emma will be walking around with me, helping you with some of the material, and helping to answer any questions you may have."
Emma looks up, a smile fixed in place but not quite reaching her eyes as she surveys the class. Her eyes land on his, widening in momentary surprise before she raises an eyebrow, her lips tilting up into something decidedly more smirk than smile as she looks between him and Will.
Interesting indeed.
The instructor, Ingrid apparently, is going over her qualifications at the front as she moves materials about the work surface. She speaks about her years of culinary school, her ownership of a very successful and very popular local bakery and cake supply shop (where they can purchase all materials for the class at a significant discount!), and over a decade of teaching experience with this very course but Killian hears none of it, his attention completely and utterly absorbed by the lovely blonde creature currently snapping a bowl into place on a mixer at the head of the room. She doesn't look like she wants to even be there, her movements are jerky and stilted, and her expression could only be described as "reconciled to her fate". She struggles briefly with the bowl, frowning at the base of the mixer before harshly jamming it into place.
He has been watching her for several moments, completely entranced, when he feels Will's elbow jabbing into his side, and Killian belatedly realizes that Ingrid has made her way across the room to just in front of their station and she has asked him a question.
"Pardon lass?" he feels the tips of his ears burn, snapping his eyes away from the beautiful woman at the front.
"We're all just sharing our reasons for taking this course," Ingrid is giving him a knowing smile. "And it's your turn-," she looks at his name card. "Killian."
"Ah well," he scratches the back of his ear. "New experience I suppose?" He darts his eyes to the blonde and she is smirking at him again, arms folded across her chest. "I've always fancied learning how to decorate a cake, I have a very creative soul you see, and this class just seemed to call to it."
"Is that so?" The woman murmurs and her eyes turn to will. "And you young man?"
"Too be honest I was a bit off me 'ead when we signed up," Will rubs the back of his hair, and Killian wants to throttle him as the other members of the assembled group titter. Ingrid smiles indulgently at the pair, turning to walk back towards the front.
"Well regardless of your reasons for being here I'm very happy you are," she breathes. "And we will hopefully have a lot of fun together."
Killian's gaze has drifted back towards the blonde in the orange apron and he finds himself thinking "Hopefully."
Emma is unsure exactly how Ingrid managed to talk her into giving up four Tuesday nights in a row just to fake her way through what will eventually culminate into 12 hours of baking basics and piping instruction. And faking it will definitely be, because Emma hasn't made much more than break and bake cookies in years, and she has never baked anything on her own voluntarily. Even years of Ingrid's attempts at mother/daughter bonding, sessions of making festive royal icing cookies and participating in charity bake sales, haven't given Emma the skills necessary to pull this off, but she feels she owes it to Ingrid to at least try.
Ingrid's usual assistant Elsa, Emma's foster cousin and current best friend, is out on extended leave to help her sister with her new baby, and Ingrid certainly can't handle a class this size alone. Cancelling the class was also out of the question, Ingrid relied on the extra income and the exposure it brought her bakery and attached cake supply shop. The revenue from supply sales during the course alone covered a large portion of Ingrid's monthly expenses, which was why she even bothered giving these classes in the first place. Daily sales at the shop of various baked goodies barely covered the overhead and the decorating classes provided a nice cushion between the larger cake orders. Ingrid needed her help, and she needed her to pull this off so these paying customer's didn't lose faith in the shop's credibility.
Emma's eyes sweep the class appraisingly, and it is, as she expected, filled with the usual sorts of people, bored housewives taking a little me time, couples looking for something to do on their date nights, and mother/daughter duos trying to bond over a mutual craft of some sort. Row 3 however, with its two sheepish and out of place leather clad occupants, takes her completely by surprise. One of them looks like he has already partaken of a good portion of a bottle of whisky, eyeing the arrangement of ingredients before him with suspicion and a slight sway on his feet. The other is ridiculously attractive, unnervingly so, black hair falling across his forehead and brilliant blue eyes sweeping Emma with a burning intensity and his tongue pressed to his teeth. An intensity that has him missing Ingrid's query entirely. His ears turn red in embarrassment as he answers, and it's clear he had much different intentions with this class, but he pops his t's and over enunciates each word in a decidedly sinful accent and that tongue moves to the corner of his mouth while he ponders his response, and Emma thinks "Well, fuck."
She catches Ingrid's eye as the woman makes her way back up to the front and Emma has to fight ridiculously hard not to turn bright pink with embarrassment at the raised eyebrow and "Did you see him?" look on Ingrid's face. Emma most certainly has seen him, and she is really appreciating what she sees, but she also absolutely refuses to allow this to become one of Ingrid's "Let's set Emma up with anyone remotely single" missions. The most recent, a guy at Ingrid's stupid trendy furniture store, had ended badly enough, just another in a long string of terrible dates and one night stands, and Emma didn't need yet another notch on her dysfunctional bed post.
Emma gives a curt shake of her head at her foster mother before she turns back to fiddle with the mixer, trying very hard not to so much as glance in his direction. Ingrid was notorious for pushing any moderately attractive male at both her foster daughter and her niece: waiters, baristas, random men on the train, it didn't matter as long as they were passably attractive and of a similar age. It appeared that this class was going to be no exception for her ill-fated attempts at matchmaking, and worse, Ingrid didn't have only a five minute coffee order with which to work her magic, she had, at the very minimum, three entire hours of instruction.
"Okay everyone!" Ingrid is clapping her hands together startling Emma back to reality, smiling broadly at the class. "First, we start with the basics! Now, most of you have probably baked a cake before,-" Emma hears the shorter one snort to himself, and catches the handsome one elbowing him again out of the corner of her eye, "-but we're going to go over some tips while we prepare our cakes for tonight. First we'll just discuss some of the major pitfalls that can happen, things like domed tops, sunken middles, and improper pan preparation."
Emma feels the beginnings of panic starting to rise up into her throat as the class gets under way. She knows exactly nothing about any of those topics. Emma sends up a silent prayer up to the heavens that she will not cause herself any embarrassment, no one will ask her any difficult questions, and most importantly, that Ingrid will be too preoccupied with doing her job to meddle in Emma's love life.
"Now who has baked a cake before?" Ingrid is asking the class. Predictably, most of those assembled raise their hands, and at least one person at each station of two has, except for Row 3.
"Ah, well most of you then, or your partners have at any rate," Ingrid was practically beaming, her eyes twinkling at the two men. "Oh, except you two gentleman. Emma would you mind going back to help Will and Killian with their cake since they've never made one before?" Ingrid keeps her face the absolute picture of innocence, but Emma sees it all in her eyes and she sends a glare her way, stomping across the room. She wants to point out that technically she hasn't ever made a cake by herself either, but Emma doubts the paying customers would appreciate knowing that, and Ingrid would be devastated.
Her eyes flick quickly up to the pair, The Drunk One looks like he is stifling a yawn, but The Handsome One looks absolutely delighted at this turn of events. He is grinning at her, all perfect white teeth against dark scruff and Emma is dismayed to find that not only do his eyes crinkle at the corners with the action, but he has actual dimples, the bastard. Emma takes a breath and curses inwardly as it seems that none of her prayers will be answered this day.
So far they have placed a few sticks of soft butter into the mixer's bowl, along with quite a large portion of sugar, and the machine was now underway with the business of stirring the mixture slowly using a large paddle. Ingrid had called it creaming, and Will had snorted like a child, and Killian's ears had turned red with embarrassment at the look of momentary disgust on Emma's face and the roll of her eyes.
So far, things were going swimmingly.
Ingrid has moved on at the front and she has begun demonstrating something called a "sifter", giving a lecture on the importance of "sifting", but Killian's eyes and attention is trained entirely on the lovely woman who has taken up the place between him and Will. She is refusing to look directly at him for some reason, choosing instead to look practically anywhere else, as she helps them assemble their cake.
She reaches out, picking up a box from the pile of ingredients and holds it up for them.
"Well this is uh-" Emma's eyes dart to the label. "Cake flour, and its um, used for making cakes."
Killian reaches around her to grab a bowl and a sifter from their supplies, like the one Ingrid has been using at the front, one hand hovering in the space just above the small of her back as he leans across. She smells wonderful, like vanilla and citrus and he gets just a hint of it as he pulls back with the items in hand. He hears her suck in a small gasp at his proximity, but she continues on in shaky tones. It's the only indication she's given that she is even acknowledging his presence, and it makes him smile a bit as he places the bowl directly in front of her.
"So we just um, just measure out the right amount, and then we put it in the sifter and sift it into the bowl," she sounds completely unsure of herself, her eyes darting back and forth between the ingredients and Ingrid as she drags a knife across the now full measuring cup. She frowns down at it, and leans over to check the laminated recipe card they have been provided. "You measure out three cups," she checks the card again "Yeah, that's right, three cups of cake flour into the sifter…thing." Killian raises an eyebrow as Emma dumps the contents of the cup into the top of the contraption. A fine cloud of flour puffs up and she waves it away impatiently.
"Okay, now we just…. sift it," she picks up the sifter, her hands squeezing experimentally at the trigger, peering into the top. She doesn't give the impression she has ever held one before, and it is awkward in her hand as she squeezes the trigger halfheartedly, tapping the metal object against the sides of the bowl before squeezing again.
"Have you ever even made a cake before?" Killian asks her, keeping his voice low and conspiratorial. He steps closer into her space, gesturing at the sifter and her poor management of it.
"Yes I have made a stupid cake before," Emma hisses at him and gives the trigger a few more angry squeezes to prove her point. "I've made lots of cakes. It's my job to make cakes. All the cakes. With Ingrid at her bakery that specializes in cakes."
"No its not," Killian narrows his eyes, catching the lie in her voice and the flush on her cheekbones. "I don't think you've ever made a cake, not by yourself at any rate lass."
Emma looks up at him wide-eyed, almost dropping the device into the small pile of flour that has accumulated in the bowl. Her eyes dart to Will who is blessedly not paying them a bit of attention, looking at his phone instead, his fingers moving rapidly over the screen as he presumably tries to figure out a way to gracefully get of this. She looks back to the sifter, continuing to squeeze it angrily, growling out her frustration when the trigger jams.
"Oh and you have?" she bites out. Killian smiles, gently reaching over and taking the sifter from her grasp, his fingers brushing hers.
"Once, when I was a lad," he examines it for a moment, moves the spring on the trigger back into place, and resumes the sifting, his movements fluid and purposeful, giving it little shakes occasionally to keep the blades from jamming, soft sifted flour falling delicately into the bowl. Emma glares at it like it has personally betrayed her. "For my mum's birthday, I watched her a few times making our cakes, and I decided to try my hand at it to surprise her," he motions towards the flour, indicating she should measure out the next cup. She huffs a bit but does so, they are already pretty far behind in their cake preparation, and she doesn't want to draw any further attention to them. "My brother helped with the oven bits though."
"So why did you lie about it when Ingrid asked?" Emma dumps the next cup into the sifter, waving away another cloud of flour. Killian's smile grows as he continues to sift.
"Well I was seven, hardly a professional now was I?" He finishes and slides the bowl of flour across the counter to her. "The question becomes love," Killian leans in closer, his breath hot on the shell of her ear, stirring a few tendrils of hair that have escaped from her ponytail. She can barely hear him over the whirring of a dozen mixers but she can certainly feel him, "Why did you lie about it?"
"Bathroom? Right this way, let me show you!" Emma grabs him by the wrist yanking him towards the doors, ignoring Ingrid's triumphant look on her way out. To his credit Killian plays along instantly, not even looking surprised by her outburst, following her out into the hallway.
"Excellent tactic to get me alone darling, well played, no one will suspect a thing," his smirk widens as she rolls her eyes, her arms crossing over her chest.
"Look, okay-," Emma takes a deep breath and sighs, her eyes meeting his. They are startlingly green in the fluorescent lights and Killian can see her worry reflected in them, his smirk drops a bit, "-no I don't know how to bake a cake. I don't know how to pipe stupid flowers, or make seashell borders with fucking vanilla buttercream or any of this stuff, but Ingrid needs my help and she relies on this class for her business so I need you to keep it cool and let me act like I know what I'm doing for the next few hours." Her expression turns pleading. "Can you please do that for me?"
Killian's face softens into a genuine smile, which Emma finds is every bit as devastating as the smirk, and he nods at her reassuringly. He finds it endearing really, her desire to help what he assumes is a relative of hers, despite her complete lack of experience and the high potential for embarrassment. Killian doesn't know much about decorating cakes, obviously, but he highly doubts it's something you can just con your way through.
"Of course, love, " Killian gives a little, slightly ridiculous, bow, moving even closer. The small hallway instantly shrinks in size, and Emma can feel the heat from his chest as he slides easily into her space his voice low. "As far as anyone in that room will know you were the head of your pastry class at Le Cordon Bleu and I am your humble, but appreciative, student who would like just a mere-" Killian pauses, his eyes going darker as they move across her face, "taste….of your considerable talents." Emma swallows.
"Yeah well, we don't need to go that far, maybe just pretend I know how to make a fucking cake alright?"