Testing Recipes for Disaster (Emberwood #2)

Chapter 19- Lauren

T hat little speech hurt more than I thought it would. I didn’t expect it to go any differently. I didn’t even think it would have been good if it had. If he had said that he wanted to be with me, I would have agreed because he was funny and stupidly hot and unfairly good in bed. And then, eventually, one or both of us would ruin it.

So, in reality, this is good. He can bake, and I can watch TV, and someday, we’ll go back to how we were before.

We had to wait out the awkwardness. No problem.

He was cleaning the kitchen, and I was very involved in my trashy reality show—so much so that I had no idea what it was called or what was going on. It was clear he had run out of things to clean because he was pacing slowly in my kitchen like he was afraid to approach me.

“You can come sit while you wait if you promise not to interrupt my show. The plot is very important.”

He looked relieved and sat down a respectable distance from me on the couch. We sat in silence for a minute or two or three hundred because the tension was so thick, I felt like I was in an alternate universe where time had no meaning.

“This show is awful. I kind of love it. Why is that girl separated from the rest of the people?”

“She broke a house rule or something.”

“So, she’s in time out?”

“Yeah, I guess. But now you’re interrupting.”

“Sorry, sorry.”

To his credit, he watched the awful show until his timer went off, and then he was back to work. My entire house smelled like vanilla, and it was amazing. He sauntered back with plates and what looked like a cup of frosting.

“I’ll have you know this is sacrilege,” he said as he sat back down, his leg now brushing up against mine and making me wish I’d worn pants. I shifted to put inches between us.

“Cake? No. Cake is a religious experience if done right.”

“Well, we agree on that. But I mean me cutting off these pieces before it cooled. However, it’s only going to be cut into squares for Sam and Jesse’s tasting or the petit fours. So do not think that I’ll always bring you cake straight out of the oven. Today is an exception. And I brought buttercream that I made yesterday at home. You must have the whole experience.”

A grin spread across my face. I took the fork he offered, scooped out a ridiculous amount of frosting, and plunged it into the small square of cake. I unceremoniously shoved the whole thing in my mouth.

“Mmmmmmsofkgd.”

“I take that to mean good, but you’re supposed to savor it. Heathen.”

“This is how I savor,” I said after I’d swallowed and gulped down my water.

He ate his own like a civilized person, I guessed.

“And you call me a princess.”

He choked on the bite he was eating and coughed, reaching for his water.

Maybe bringing up the name he called you in bed wasn’t the best move when you’re trying to ignore that it happened. Honest mistake.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to almost kill you.”

“Lies,” he rasped.

I suppressed a laugh but gave him a shrug instead.

“You’ll never really know, I guess. Anyway, what’s your timeline for baking? I figured we could make a schedule to make sure everything gets done. And when I say we , I mean you. ”

“I’d kind of picked up on that, actually, since every time we talk about the spreadsheet, you change topics.”

I almost argued, but I did do that. It was just so much information.

“But before I can do that, I need to know if you’re amenable to me baking here when you’re not home, or, um, if that’s weird? I just don’t know if I’m making a schedule based on me or based on both of us. In which case, I need your work schedule.”

“Oh. I guess that’s fine, yeah. It would probably be easier for you. My schedule sometimes changes if I have walk-ins or cancellations anyway. If you could, ah, let me know when you’ll be here, so I don’t think there’s a murderer in my house when I get home, that would be good.”

“Are there murderers who also bake for you?”

“There could be. I don’t know all the murderers.”

“Fair enough. I will send you my baking schedule so I can get everything done before the shower. And I took the liberty of making a one-page checklist of the other tasks that need done based on your tornado of sticky notes, text messages, and emails. You can check off the ones you want to do, and I’ll do the rest. I got the feeling the spreadsheet was a bit much.”

“Can’t you be an asshole or something?” I muttered.

It was hard to move past all of this when he was acting like the center of a cinnamon roll.

“What’s that?” he asked.

I only shook my head because he heard me loud and clear.

“This is a lot to get done. Okay.”

I started to rattle off the things I would do, which included making sure we had table linens, dishware, flatware, adequate lighting, teacups, heaters, and a rain contingency plan for inside the house. Jeremy was dealing with pretty much everything food and beverage related.

“You got it. Are you sure you want to pick up the heaters? I guess you can borrow a truck from your dad or Jesse as easily as I can from the shop, but they’re kind of bulky.”

“ Yes , I can handle it.”

He held up his hands in surrender, and I took that opportunity to steal the cup of frosting from his plate and promptly eat it with my fork.

“I would have given it to you if you’d asked.”

“More fun if I feel like I got away with something.”

“Sometimes,” he agreed with a laugh.

He found a place in my pantry to keep some of his things so that he didn’t have to lug them back and forth, and then he was gone. We had done it. We had successfully navigated being alone together. No one kissed anyone, and everything was relatively fine.

Great .