The Gratitude Guarantee (Boyfriend in the Bargain #4)

10. Brenna

10

brENNA

“ D inner was delicious,” Zach finally tells my mother after an hour and a half of lively conversation. Thankfully, the topic of our alleged relationship never came back up after the initial inquiry. Instead, we spent much of the time on Zach’s life journey, since my parents had a seemingly unending list of questions for him. He took it all in stride, answering good-naturedly, and I actually learned quite a bit about him.

It turns out he used to travel frequently before he started his own business, visiting thirteen different countries mostly by himself. Of course, I already knew a little about his family, but I didn’t know that his parents were both professors or that he had a sister who died in infancy. He doesn’t make a big deal about any of it, but that much loss has to have impacted him profoundly. I can’t even imagine a life without my parents and siblings, even though we don’t always get along perfectly. Case in point, the fact that I felt the need to fake a boyfriend.

“Why don’t you guys just go relax and let me and Zach clean up?” I suggest.

Mom looks at my dad and he shrugs and presses a kiss to her cheek. “Let the young people spend some time together. We’ll go have some alone time of our own.” He waggles his eyebrows, and my mom blushes and slaps him lightly on the arm.

“Stop it, Kevin. You’ll traumatize the kids.”

Zach grins and waves them away as he begins stacking plates. “We’ve got this. Go enjoy yourselves.”

It only takes a few minutes to load the dishwasher and clear the decks for our pie project, which I’m not really in the mood for, to be honest.

“I’m so full it doesn’t feel right to be making more food right now,” I tell Zach. “I really just want to change into stretchy pants and relax.”

He laughs, and I notice again what a nice laugh he has. It’s warm and fills the whole room, making me smile too.

“Winners keep going even when they don’t feel like it,” he tells me. “So you’d better bring your pastry A-game. I don’t see any reason why you can’t bake with stretchy pants, though, if you want to go change.”

“Good point. I’ll be right back.” I take the stairs two at a time, which is not easy since I wasn’t lying about being full. While I’m capable of cooking full meals, I don’t do it that often since I’m usually tired by the time I get home from the office, so when I get a chance to enjoy a homemade meal like the one we just had, it’s a struggle not to overindulge. Tonight, I think I lost the struggle.

I exchange my purple jeans for rose-colored joggers with a sigh of relief, sliding on my leopard slippers while I’m at it. And since I’ve already gone this far, I pull off my sweater and tug on an old blue sweatshirt before twisting my hair up into a messy bun. A glance in the full-length mirror reveals someone who gives zero cares about her appearance—an underappreciated perk of having a fake boyfriend instead of a real one. I don’t have anyone to impress, ergo I can wear whatever I want, whether it matches or not.

I jog back downstairs and find Zach has made himself more comfortable as well. He’s shed his plaid button down and folded it neatly on a bar stool, leaving only his untucked white undershirt contrasting with his dark jeans. I do a double-take, blinking rapidly, then quickly look elsewhere, hoping he didn’t notice. I don’t know why this clothing combo caught my attention. It’s not like I’ve never seen him in a T-shirt before. But usually, he’s sweaty and also wearing gym shorts. Something about the white shirt with the jeans is unexpectedly appealing.

“Feel better?” he asks.

“Much. I’m ready to do this thing.” Pulling up the recipe I found on my phone, I copy the link and text it to him so he can follow along more easily.

Zach tucks his hands into his pockets and leans awkwardly against the island. “Do you want to pull out all the ingredients and bowls and stuff? It feels weird for me to paw through your mom’s kitchen looking for things.”

“Why? It’s not like she keeps a diary full of embarrassing confessions hidden behind the measuring cups,” I tease with a laugh.

“You never know. It just feels intrusive. I don’t want to be an intruder.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” I wave dismissively. “ Mi casa es tu casa —or whatever the equivalent is for “My mother’s kitchen is your kitchen.’”

“ La cocina de mi madre es tu cocina .”

I freeze with my hand over my head as I stretch for a mixing bowl, my mouth falling open. “You speak Spanish?”

Zach rubs the back of his neck. “Just what I learned from the required classes in high school and college. And I did spend a couple of weeks in Spain the summer after I graduated, so I picked up a little more then. But I’m not really fluent.”

“Hmm.” He sounds a heck of a lot more fluent than I do, and I took Spanish in school too.

“Anyway…” He claps his hands together. “What do you want me to do?”

“Why don’t you get some ice water for the crust while I cut the butter into the flour, then we’ll go from there?”

It turns out that even though Zach has never made a pie crust before, he’s very handy to have around. I watch him roll the dough out thin and smooth with practically no effort, a task that always leaves me with tired arms. I drape it in a pie pan and crimp the edges as neatly as possible since I’m not sure if appearance will play a factor in scoring.

Zach peels and dices the apples we bought earlier and puts them in a bowl, then stirs it all together as I add the cranberries, sugar, cornstarch, cinnamon, vanilla, and lemon zest. He spreads the mixture in the crust, and I combine butter, flour, sugar, and cinnamon into a moist, crumbly topping that we layer over the fruit.

Digging into the back of a drawer, I rummage through Mom’s cookie cutter collection and come up with an apple shaped cutter, which we use on the extra pie dough and arrange in a cluster on one side of the pie. I tip my head and look at it critically.

“I think that’s the best we can do. Let’s bake it.”

Zach slides it carefully into the oven, and I set a timer on my phone for one hour. It only takes us about five minutes to clean up our mess, leaving us with fifty-five more to twiddle our thumbs. I glance at the clock and realize it’s a few minutes past nine.

“You can go to bed if you want,” I offer. “Waiting on the timer to go off isn’t really a two-person job.”

“Nah, I slept in this morning so I’m not tired enough for bed yet.” He crosses his arms and leans against the counter. “Plus, this is a team competition, remember? I don’t want you getting disqualified because your teammate went AWOL at the last minute.”

I don’t think the rules are quite that strict, but since I’m not ready for bed yet either, I don’t argue. Instead, I say, “I have an idea. Come with me.”