Testing Recipes for Disaster (Emberwood #2)

Chapter 4- Jeremy

M y muscles were unhappy about the amount of time I spent either under a vehicle or hunched over a hood yesterday. I stretched before grabbing my phone. My alarm hadn’t gone off yet, so that might’ve meant I had time to make a decent breakfast.

A grin spread across my face when I read Lauren’s text. Her sending me drunk, sassy messages beat the silent treatment any day of the week.

It was only eight, meaning I had time to make breakfast and drop a muffin off at the salon as an apology for my eyes and arms.

I’d bought lavender from the specialty grocery in Centerville, picked up fresh lemons and some local honey, and it was possible these muffins would be so good that Lauren would forgive my offending body parts on the spot. I’d perfected my base muffin recipe a while ago—round, golden brown on the top and fluffy inside, but I’d been trying out more flavor combinations. Next, I’d try the same flavors in cookies and a cake.

My tiny kitchen smelled like sugar and lemons by the time I got them in the oven. Paula, the instructor for most of the baking classes I’d completed in the final semester of my program, would have been happy with these.

Are you ever planning to do anything with the skills from said program? I thought, knowing the answer was probably not .

I shaved and got dressed. I was thankful today would be more office work than being in the garage. It was boring, but I could listen to music or baking podcasts in my headphones while I worked. No headphones were allowed on the garage floor.

I made a smoothie while I waited for the muffins to bake and took the time to clean up my mess. While I washed mixing bowls and beaters, I tried to shake off the negativity that came with thinking about work. I knew that I was lucky in the grand scheme of things.

After high school, I’d decided to take the fuck-around-and-find-out route for a while.

If ‘a while’ is three years.

What I found out was that spiraling into a routine of doing illicit drugs on random Tuesdays after (hell, during) work, getting into screaming matches with my ex, and generally having little regard for myself or others did not leave a lot of room for upward mobility. Instead, those years left me fired from my serving job, in possession of a couple of misdemeanor charges, kicked out of my parents’ house, and overall, out of options.

At the insistence of my grandmother, who was maybe the only family member not to write me off after all of that, my Uncle Nick reluctantly put me up on his couch and put me to work. I knew a fair amount about cars from my dad—he was always a car guy—and Nick filled in the rest. I had no right to bounce back as quickly as I did. While I wouldn’t ever say it was easy , I knew it was a lot harder for my former friends who didn’t have a grandma or an uncle like mine.

I blew out a breath. Thinking about my life from not-so-many-years ago was always a sobering experience. I tried to tell myself I wasn’t that guy anymore and shake it off.

But you could be. A few missteps, and you’d be right back there fucking up everything you touched.

“Nope,” I said aloud, refusing to let myself get dragged into that place. It helped that the timer dinged and gave me something else to focus on.

“Yessssssss.”

I breathed in the subtle floral scent of the lavender and knew they were going to be good. I took a photo and sent it to my grandma. After only a little hesitation, I sent it to my mom, too. She and my dad moved to Toledo a few years ago, shortly after shit hit the fan. While things were still pretty much no-contact with my dad, my mom and I texted. Sometimes. Or even talked on the phone if it was, like, my birthday or Christmas. It was slow progress, was the bottom line.

While they cooled, I finished getting ready for work and shot off a text to Lauren. The knot in my chest when I thought about her had loosened after last night, and I wanted things to go back to how they were.

No, you really don’t. You want her. End of story.

My jaw clenched at my too-honest inner monologue, and I promptly ignored it.

JEREMY: I’m going to go out on a limb and say your choice in beverage last night has you hating life right about now. I have a present to drop off for you as an apology from my eyes and arms. See you in a bit.

LAUR : Bringing me a present is an odd response to me saying I hate you. But I’m not gonna complain.

JEREMY: Good girl ;)

LAUR : It would be a shame if my very sharp scissors slipped while cutting your hair next week, ending in a tragic severing of an important artery.

I should have deleted that reply instead of sending it, but it was so hard to resist when I knew I could get her worked up. And when I knew she was thinking about parts of my body while drunk last night. My grin faltered when I remembered what she said about acting like a friend if I wanted a friend. I’d kind of been hoping she wasn’t serious, but I also didn’t want her to go back to pretending like I didn’t exist.

Not off to a great start .

I resolved to do better.

JEREMY: Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. You don’t have to resort to murder. I’ll be appropriate. Scout’s Honor.

She only sent back an eye-rolling gif, but again, any response was better than the silence. Armed with baked goods and a plan to pick up coffee, I headed out to my car and appreciated the warmth of the sun as I slid into the driver’s seat.

The salon had just opened and wasn’t too busy yet. The receptionist said Laur was in the back and would be out soon. I’d been there so many times over the past year she knew who I was and commented on my absence. My hair had never been so well maintained in my life up until recently.

I walked back to Lauren’s station and set the bag with the muffins on the vanity slowly, hoping if I took long enough, she’d come out and I could make her try one to see what she thought. I sank into her chair and spun around while I waited. Checking my phone, I sighed, knowing I had to leave to get to the shop.

“Is that my present?”

I looked up and found her leaning against the wall, dressed in a ruffly sort of yellow top and her hair done in two twisty-looking braids.

“It is. And if you hurry up, I can watch you open it before I go.”

She eyed me suspiciously as she walked over to peer in the bag.

“You bought me muffins?” she asked, surprise in her voice. “They smell amazing. Just not what I expected.”

“Ah, no. I made you muffins. Lavender, lemon, and honey. Now I need you to try one before I’m late for work.”

“ You ...made lavender, lemon, and honey muffins. From scratch. This morning.”

Her tone was disbelieving.

“Tasting first, questions later, Garrett.”

She shook her head but took one out and peeled the brown paper wrapping.

“It’s weird that you’re watching me eat, but whatever.”

She sank her teeth into the muffin and let out a little moan while she chewed.

“Jer. When the fuck did you learn to bake?”

She picked another piece of the muffin top off with her nails and popped it into her mouth.

“I told you I was taking classes at ECC.”

That may have been true, but I’d sort of kept my whole certificate program very vague to most people. It felt like an opportunity for me to fail with an audience. Again. Thankfully, I didn’t fail, but now it was a little odd telling people what I’d been doing for almost two years.

“Okay, totally honest, when you said you were taking some sort of cooking classes, I envisioned like a basic ‘how-to-grill-chicken-breast,’ college-level home economics type of course. Not for you to be making little pieces of lavender clouds that melt in your mouth. Jesus, this is good.”

I felt the satisfied grin spread across my face, and it only made me happier that she had powdered sugar on her nose. I stood and stepped into her space, brushing my thumb to remove it.

“I’m glad you like it.”

She looked at me for a beat before drawing in a breath and stepping back slightly.

“Ah, thanks. I, um... yeah, it’s great. I guess I’ll forgive your arms and eyes or whatever. Sorry, I was a little drunk last night.”

“I’m trying very hard to be appropriate, so I’m not going to make a joke about how you insulting what are arguably two of my best features was a very interesting approach for a booty call. But I want you to appreciate my restraint.”

As it happened, I was very bad at being ‘friendly.’

“You’re the literal worst. Thank you for the muffins.”

“I brought one for Christian, too, if he’s here. His compliments were much more straightforward than yours last night.”

“He’s off today, but even if he weren’t, I wouldn’t share. Now go to work.”

“I’m going, I’m going.”

I turned to head out of the salon.

“And Jer?”

“Yeah?” I replied, turning around.

“If you decide to come to happy hour tomorrow, I don’t think I’ll have to leave early. My schedule has recently cleared up.”

That was probably the closest I’d get to her admitting she’d been avoiding me and, dare I say, an almost-apology.

“I’ll be there.”

And with that, I felt more like myself than I had in months.