"Sure, sure. Thanks. Here, can I take some of those bags?" Not waiting for an answer, I grab the handles of three of her reusable shopping bags and lead her back to the elevator.
She huffs out irritated breaths as we ascend, but she still doesn't fuckin' look at me. That's going to make this whole activity very difficult. Unsure of how to proceed, I just follow her lead as we enter the apartment and put the bags on the counter. She unpacks everything with military efficiency and punches 350 into the oven to preheat.
I cringe. I could have done that. I should have done that. I should be making her life easier.
"Are you okay?" I may not understand every single social cue, but her annoyance is palpable.
"Yeah, Dustin. I'm fine." She huffs out a long breath. "No, I'm not. My ex-husband texted me fromanothernumber this morning to ask about the fucking baseball cards."
"How many phones does this guy have?" I muse.
"Probably spoofed or a temporary number. I don't know. Why won't he leave me alone?" She sets down a muffin tin a bit harder than necessary. The metal clangs against the marble countertop, and I cringe involuntarily.
Calling on that same bravery I had the last time she was here, I wrap my arms around her shoulders and pull her in close. She stiffens for a split-second but melts into my grip when I don't let go. My heart melts along with her. She doesn't deserve this kind of harassment. From what I can tell, he's just doing this to mess with her. No one messes with my girl.
Wait, my girl? Shit.
"Your heart is beating really fast," she mumbles into my shirt.
"Uh, sorry," I stammer. "I was just thinking."
"Well!" She announces and steps back. "You best start thinking about baking. Welcome to baking boot camp, Dustin."
"Uh-oh."
Early aughts pop blares from the wireless speaker Brooke brought along. Goopy cake mix and powdered sugar areeverywhere. I keep trying to wipe it up, but my drill sergeant keeps snapping a twisted-up tea towel at me.
"Later! Clean-up comes later, okay? There's no use in cleaning now—it'll all just get dirty again." She points a finger at me authoritatively, and I raise my hands in defeat.
"Yes, ma'am." I sneakily wipe a glob of cake batter from my shirt. A tiny act of rebellion.
"The next batch comes out of the oven in—" She checks her phone. "—five minutes. Check the middle row with a fork and make sure it's truly set."
"I know, I know." Somehow, I thought baking with Brooke would be more sexy than this. I imagined licking icing from her neck and teasing each other with whisks.Instead, I'm sweating more in the kitchen than I have in any gym. I'd say I'm disappointed, but I'm not. She's a force of nature. I lov—likeit. Ilikeit. A lot.
"This bag is empty—can you swap out the tip?" She points to the full piping bag on the counter she already prepped, and hands me the empty bag.
I can do this. Sure, I messed it up the last time, but that was just practice. With careful precision, I follow the steps she laid out clearly. I only curse under my breath a few times—which is an improvement—and hand her the most perfect piping bag of frosting I've ever seen, if I do say so myself.
"Better." She nods approvingly, and my chest fills with pride.
Within moments, every single one of the bare chocolate cupcakes is frosted with a perfect pink swirl—reminiscent of a rose but not exactly. I watch intently as she sprinkles silver pearlescent powder of some sort on each cupcake. The silver compliments the dusty pink perfectly. It looks classy and elegant, which isn't something I would normally associate with cupcakes. Brooke really has an eye for this sort of thing.
Bee-bee-bee-beep. Bee-bee-bee-beep.
Her phone's alarm rings out and I jump into action. I test the middle row with my fork, and it comes out clean. Next, I remove the tray, efficiently replacing it with the next tin. Brooke taps her phone again, resetting the timer.
"How'd I do, boss?" I ask.
"Very good." She nods again.
There's not much to do until the batch is cool enough for frosting, so I sit on a bar stool and try not to wipe up the counters. Every single speck of powder or goop taunts me, and I have to sit on my hands. This is her show; I'm just the assistant. But god dammit, I want to fucking clean up this mess.
"Do you think you'll be able to help me deliver these tomorrow?" Brooke asks, scrolling through her phone. "It's up north in Inwood, by the Cloisters."
"Sure," I automatically reply. I've never heard of Inwood, but the Cloisters pique my interest. Medieval architecture and art? I could spend hours there. "Can we… visit the Cloisters after the delivery?"
She looks up from her phone and grins. "Yeah, absolutely. It's a date."
