26. Leah
26
Leah
I did not ask Cooper Bailey out on a date.
That would be ridiculous.
Insane.
That gender-reveal cake is all part of the deal we’ve made. So what if it came up that Cooper’s never baked a cake. And so what if I told him he could help me if he really wanted to learn.
“That sounds like a date.” Andrea’s words ring through my speakerphone, making me wonder if she’s gained some sort of mind-reading ability since this morning.
“It’s work,” I tell her, but doing so as I search my closet for something fantastic to wear isn’t helping. “It’s part of our arrangement.”
And then that mind-reading friend of mine asks, “What are you wearing?”
“Um,” I say, swallowing down my truth and taking three steps away from my reach-in closet. “I’m wearing the same thing you saw me in four hours ago. Duh .”
“And you aren’t in your closet right now? ”
“Inside my closet?” I sputter a forced laugh. “Have you been in my bedroom? My closet is jammed full and two feet deep. I can’t fit inside my closet.”
“You know what I mean, Leah.”
I grind my teeth and step back into my closet. I really do need to swap outfits. I’ve been in my work clothes since the wee hours of the morning. “So, I’m changing,” I say with enough defense in my voice that you might as well call me a linebacker. “It’s not a big deal. I always change out of my work clothes.”
“But you got off work a couple hours ago. So if you’re in your closet right now?—”
“Stop it!” I bark. “Will you stop already? It’s not a date.”
“I’m sorry, but it seems like you don’t hate spending time with Cooper.”
“He’s grown up. That’s all. He’s not as terrible as he once was.” Okay—that’s a stretch. I’m realizing Cooper was probably never terrible. He was a kid, and he wasn’t perfect.
There’s a short moment of silence before Andrea blurts, “Are you wearing that red top we bought at that boutique last week?” She sounds a little like a giddy child.
I lift the hanger in my hand, that very top dangling from it. Then I toss that shirt, hanger and all, into my closet as if it sprouted fangs and I’m in danger of being bitten. “Um, no. Of course not,” I tell her.
“Then what?” she says, her words bubbling out.
I nibble on my cheek. Andrea is giddy. Too giddy. Her giddiness has always been contagious. It’s not my fault. “Maybe the silky white one, you know, with the little hearts dotted all over it.”
“Nice. And you’ll let me know how it goes?”
“It’s not a date,” I say again. I nibble on my lip, my heart pounding. “But… yeah, I’ll te xt you later.”
S o, here I am, heart-dotted top, skinny jeans, and my favorite red tennies, waiting for Cooper Bailey. It’s not a date. We are baking his brother’s gender-reveal cake together. I’m doing it for free and Cooper wanted to learn. The end.
See? Far from a date. Name one person who baked a gender-reveal cake on a date.
No one.
Ever .
Not. A. Date.
Because I don’t like Cooper like that. I’ve barely made the decision to like Cooper at all.
And yet—when that sandy-blond, broad-shouldered, bearded man taps on my locked shop door, my heart ping-pongs from my stomach to my throat.
I swipe my fingers over my waistband, my thumbs brushing the edge of the soft fabric of my blouse as I walk toward my locked shop door, toward Cooper.
His dark jeans make his legs look extra long, and that button-up shirt hugs his strong, sculpted chest. The top two buttons are undone, and a triangle of skin peeks at me through that opening. I swallow down my nerves and give him a smile through the glass as I unlock the door.
“Hey,” I say, because I’m one cool cucumber. I am smooth and calm. I am not thinking about how I am all at once incredibly attracted to the man I once blamed all of my high school troubles on.
“I should warn you,” he says. “I’m probably going to be bad at this.” His lips part into a grin, and I feel as though the sun has decided to spring up and shine right on me this evening .
Is this what everyone else has been experiencing all these years? Is this how he made them feel?
I’ve been blind. Cooper Bailey does have the best smile known to man.
Of course, every girl in school was half in love with him.
Or has he changed? The cocky boy who sang to me all those years ago—would he have helped me with this case for free too?
“Leah?” he says.
“Sorry.” I shake my head, coming back to the present. “Thinking. And not about senior superlatives.”
“Excuse me?” Cooper’s brows cinch together.
“Nothing.” I pull in a breath and begin again. “You don’t bake. That’s okay. I do. Today I’m the teacher. You’re the student.”
“I could cheer you on from the sidelines—if that’s easier.”
“Cooper Bailey, you don’t get to know what I already know,” I say, holding up the envelope with Owen and Annie’s baby gender inside. “Unless you help.”
He smacks his hands together. “Whoa. You know?”
I lift my brows and beam at him in response.
“Leah, I need to know.” He steps closer and I feel it—the man radiates warmth and sweetness. “Do you have any idea how tremendous it will be—me knowing before any of my brothers?”
I smother a laugh. “Then I guess you better be an attentive student.”
“Where’s my apron?” he asks before I can even suggest it. And believe me, I’d planned to make him wear one.
I watch as Cooper swoops the apron over his head and fumbles with the ties at his side. Walking around him, I face his back, pretend I’m not drooling, and snag the ties from his hands. “Let me.”
“Thanks,” he says, standing straight. The man is tall. This close, I have to tip my head back to see the top of him. I take my time looping a bow with the apron strands and breathing that Cooper mint and bergamot combination. Cooper’s scent and the contours of his back, arms, and chest aren’t nearly as offensive as I’ve always thought them to be. Nope, they are quite the opposite.
He is intoxicating, and if Andrea were here, I’d tell her to slap me.
I need a good slap. I am falling—when I shouldn’t.
I tighten the bow at Cooper’s waist, my eyes trailing down for just a second—yes, I check out his backside. So, sue me.
Oof . That’s a terrible hyperbole.
I blink myself back to reality and walk around to face him. “Ready to get started?”
“Do I get to see the card now?” His eyes are wide and excited, reminding me of a child.
“Not yet. First, we measure and mix. When it’s time to put the food coloring in—pink or blue—then you can look.”
“But you already know?”
“Oh yeah.” I bounce my brows once, loving holding this over him a little too much.
“Now, that’s not fair. If you know, I should know.” Cooper walks toward me, but I stand my ground. “It’s my niece or nephew.”
“Which is exactly why you aren’t supposed to know yet. Your brothers aren’t here.”
“But I’m the baker,” he says, stopping three inches away from me.
“No, I’m the baker. You’re the student.”
He slaps a hand to his chest. “You’re breaking my heart, Leah.” Has my name always sounded like Nutella spread over an Oreo cookie? Or is that just when Cooper says it?
“You’re going to have to earn that gender card.” I lift one brow. I tip my chin, peering up at him. Andrea would say I’m flirting my can off. She might be right.
“I can do that,” he says, his tone dripping with confidence. “Where’s the box?”
I blink, replaying his sentence. “Box?” I wrinkle my nose. I have no idea what he’s referring to.
“The box of cake mix.”
My heart thumps and I smother my laughter. “Okay, now you’ve offended me. You do know I’m a baker, right?”
“Well, yeah…”
“You do know that it’s possible to make a cake without a store-bought mix, right?”
His brow narrows. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?” I set my hands on my hips and shoot for a stern glare. “We are not using a mix.” I turn to my counter of ingredients and start my lesson. “Because we need to color this cake specifically for the gender of the baby, we’ll be making a white cake.”
“Vanilla,” he says, meeting me at the counter. My student is ready to learn.
“Coconut, actually. It’s one of my favorites. Annie said she’d thought Owen would like that.”
“Sounds good.”
I walk Cooper through the steps of my own coconut creation. He’s not a bad student, but he’s heavy-handed on the flour and would rather dump in a heaping scoop than level it off.
“Whoa,” I tell him for the second time.
“What? You said a cup.”
“And you’ve got a cup and a half there.”
“But—” He peers down at his overflowing measuring cup. “Does it matter?”
With my finger, I smooth off the top of the cup, emptying the overflow into a separate bowl. “Yes,” I say, then blow the remnants on my finger in Cooper’s face. “It matters.”
Cooper blinks and wrinkles his nose as particles of flour float through the air and onto his face. “In that case, you should know that my butter measurement was on the heavy side.” He dips his finger into our mixing bowl, scoops out a blob of mixed butter and sugar, and dots my nose with the glop.
“Hey!” I squeal. “What are you doing? That was in our mixing bowl.”
“And now it’s on your nose.” He beams down at me, pleased with his work.
“This cake is for you now. I can’t give this one to your brother.”
“In that case…” Cooper shoots his hand into my extra bowl. “What did you say about my flour measurement again?” He holds a palmful of flour in his hand.
“Cooper! No!” I hold one finger out at him and speak as if he were a well-trained canine. I circle the metal prepping counter. “No dumping flour on your teacher.”
Cooper’s steps are slow and careful as he follows after me. But instead of tossing his handful of flour in my face, he snatches me about the waist with his empty hand. His strong arm winds around me and pulls me flush to his chest.
“Coop-er!” I cling to the front of his shirt and wail through a bout of laughter as flour sprinkles down my head as if I were standing outside in a December snowstorm. I wiggle in his grasp, but he holds me tighter. Closing my eyes, I press my face to his chest, smothering myself with bergamot, mint, and muscles .
I’m not gonna lie, if one must be smothered, this is how it should be done. My heart patters up into my ears, and I cling a little tighter to Cooper’s shirt. I keep my face hidden, breathing him in, and waiting for him to end his attack. After a minute, I peek up at him.
He grins wide and joyful, and my heart pounds fast and hard. Cooper can probably feel every beat, every thrum of my cardiovascular system. His hand is still raised above my head when he opens his fingers and the last sprinkle of white falls onto my nose and chin.
“You’ve got a little something…” he says, using his floury hand to brush at my chin.
“You think you’re so cute,” I say, but I can’t quite rein in my smile. He is stupidly cute. It’s not even an opinion at this point. It’s fact. It’s law. It’s an undeniable truth that everyone in the world knows and agrees on.
“You don’t?” He wraps his other arm around me, we are a Leah-Cooper crepe at this point.
I blink and shake my head, my arms bound in his hold. “Not even a little bit,” I lie.
“Not even a little?” His head inches closer to mine.
“Nope.” I swallow the deception down and keep my eyes on his.
“That’s a shame,” he says. “Because I think you’re adorable.” His hold around me loosens, but I don’t dare move. My fingers flatten over his chest and grapple at the collar of his shirt. With my back pressed into the metal counter behind us, I ponder the shape and color of Cooper’s lips. They’re pink and full, and I’m pretty sure they are beckoning me closer.
I muster my bravery—I’m not that timid girl from high school anymore—and when his eyes drop to my mouth, I slide my hand up to cup his bearded jaw, running my thumb over the roundness of his bottom lip.
Cooper’s face drifts closer to mine and my hand slips around to the back of his neck.
I’m not sure what’s happening or how we got to this place. I only know if I don't kiss Cooper Bailey in the next three seconds, I might drop dead—here and now.
Cooper doesn’t make me wait. He doesn’t want my fatality on his hands. No, he inches ever closer, until his warm breath tickles my chin and neck, producing goosebumps over every inch of my skin.
“Leah,” with his lips a hair’s breadth from mine he breathes out my name, it’s sweet, like icing on a cake.
I have wasted most of my adult life hating Cooper Bailey—but no more. My heart, head, and ovaries all sing, telling me he was a hero then and he is a hero now. I was wrong the whole time. Yep, if I had any sense left inside of my brain, I’d use it to convince this man to marry me and make a million little Coopers to bless the world with.
I’m ready to mold my lips to his, to heal every misery I thought I’d experienced in life, when?—
Rap-rap. Rap-rap.
Someone is knocking out front, on my shop door, and I am officially a dead woman. Clean up on aisle one because the baker is a goner. She never got her kiss, and her life is officially over.