Chapter Text
Baking
“Oh my goodness,” Eliza said, eyes widening as she stopped in the threshold to the kitchen. Granted, she’d left the kitchen in less than pristine condition after cooking all morning, but it had grown markedly worse in her absence. Ingredients were scattered everywhere, the distinct charcoal scent of burnt food hung heavy in the air, and flour covered the whole scene like snowfall. “What on earth happened in here?”
“Wait, wait, I’m coming.” Hamilton sounded breathless behind her, his footsteps drumming down the stairs. His hands came to rest on her cloak-clad shoulders, his body warm behind hers. “I’m here.”
She leaned into him and craned her head around. “What did you do?”
“I knew how busy you were today, with all the preparations for dinner with the President,” he said, thumbs stroking over her shoulders. “I finished up my report a bit ago, and I wanted to help. So, while you were out running errands, I brought the little ones down to get a start on dessert.”
She looked back at the destroyed kitchen. “It looks like our cabinets exploded.”
“Yeah, it may have taken a turn for the worse,” he agreed, nose wrinkling as he surveyed the scene before them. “Alex was a bit overenthusiastic with the flour. And timing pie is surprisingly tricky.”
A little laugh escaped her despite herself as she pictured the chaotic scene.
He gave her a little smile, hopeful, even as he apologized, “Sorry. I really meant to clean up before you got home. I was sidetracked trying to wrangle Alex and Angelica into a bath. They were wearing more pie filling then we’d managed to get in the tin.”
“I can only imagine.” She took note of his damp shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, and the lack of little terrors on the scene. Sighing, she patted at his shoulder and started to remove her cloak, trying to prepare herself to attack the cleaning before she could start baking. “Well, I appreciate the attempt, sweetheart.”
“Not just an attempt,” he said, straightening, his smile turning to a grin. “Dessert is ready.”
“Is it?” Skepticism was heavy in her voice.
“Yes.”
“You know we can’t serve the Washingtons burnt pie, right?”
“It’s perfectly good pie,” he said firmly.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. Don’t worry about it.”
She stared at him.
“I promise,” he pressed, drawing a cross over his heart with an index finger. He stepped around her and crossed over to the side table, where he uncovered a beautiful fruit pie with a golden lattice crust that had been hidden beneath a gingham cloth. “See?”
She followed his path, shocked. “You made this?”
“I made—” He hesitated, weighing his words, “—sure we had dessert.”
She arched an eyebrow.
His eyes flicked down as he admitted, “I sent Mary out to the bakery while I got the children cleaned up.”
She laughed. “That I’ll believe.”
“At least you don’t have to bake.”
“Just clean up,” she parried, voice fond. She leaned against him and wrapped her arms around his waist.
“I am sorry,” he said, kissing her temple as he encircled her in an embrace. “I’ll help with the tidying.”
“Like you helped with the baking?”
“Yes.” His cheeks flushed slightly, but he insisted, “I got there in the end, didn’t I?”
“You always do.” She squeezed him tight and kissed his pink cheek. “Thank you, my love.”