29. Chapter 29
twenty-nine
I knocked twice on Max’s door, the monosyllabic word cycling through my head in the midst of all my other thoughts as it had all night. Date . Date. Date.
Holy minestrone , was this really a date? I desperately wanted it to be. That possibility had been the only thing moving my feet forward, knowing what conversation lay ahead of us.
Max grinned as he opened the door. “Thank goodness you’re here. I haven’t burned the place down yet, but I make no promises.”
I laughed, my nerves dissipating slightly as I settled into our normal rhythm around each other. “How have you survived the bachelor life so long, again?”
He closed the door behind me as I entered. “Baking and cooking are different. I can cook well enough to live, but baking is a whole different ball game.”
“In that case, consider me your coach.” I slipped my shoes off and padded further into his home, inhaling the scent of him permeating the place. Him and… burnt something . Sugar, if I had to guess.
The brightly colored print of flowers on the wall lit up his otherwise minimalistic space and breathed life into it the way Max did with anything he touched.
His apartment had the same blah color scheme of grays and browns as mine.
Without my baby blue kitchen appliances and quirky throw pillows adding pops of color, though, the drabness seemed accentuated.
It was a wonder someone so happy lived in these conditions without losing his spark.
“I really need to get you some throw pillows.” I set my canvas tote on his—much more intact—couch. Another pop of color on the end table caught my eye.
“Oh, that’s—”
“The bodice-ripping book,” I cried, positively beaming as I picked it up. I gasped when I noticed a folded piece of paper for a bookmark near the end. “You’re almost done with it.”
“Uh, yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck as his cheeks darkened. “It sounded pretty good, and if you liked it… I wanted to see why.”
Be still, my geriatric heart. He read a book I liked solely because I liked it.
“And?” I prompted. “What do you think of it?”
“I can see why you like it.” He cleared his throat and shoved his hands in his pockets. “That duke is hard to measure up to. And inspiring at the same time.”
I set the book down and chuckled. “For what it’s worth, I think you blow any of those fictional men out of the water.”
Aw, lamb chops . I hadn’t intended for it to sound so flirty, especially since my flirting skills were a solid two on a scale from one to one-hundred.
“In a purely platonic way,” I tacked on, convincing exactly nobody.
His eyes twinkled, and his smirk could’ve started the Trojan War. “Purely platonic, huh? That’s a shame.”
A high-pitched squeal took over any and all coherent thoughts. Did he really just say that? Was I even breathing right now?
No. No, I was not.
I sucked in a breath as my stomach flipped. I tried to say something coherent, but all that came out was a breathy “ huhhh .”
I think he broke my brain.
He laughed and pursed his lips in the tote bag’s direction. “Did you happen to bring a miracle with you? I think my dessert is going to need it.”
“Uh-huh,” I answered absently, still unable to form real words.
Once his meaning registered, I shook away the cracked pieces of my cerebrum.
“I mean, maybe? How about you tell me what you want to make, and we go from there? But first” —I retrieved two aprons from my bag, tossed him the black one, and took my Bluetooth speaker out— “uniform and ambience.”
He unfurled the apron, laughing and sending me an appreciative look when he read the design. “May the forks be with you.”
“Wait for it. It gets better.”
“Better than Star Wars puns?”
I put on the hot pink apron, complete with a whisk and the saying “Now watch me whip,” and modeled it for him. “See? Pretty great, eh?”
He considered for a moment before shaking his head. “Sorry, I think I won this round.”
“Yeah, yeah” —I waved the defeat away with a dismissive hand— “let’s get to the mood music.” I connected my phone to the speaker and started my favorite baking playlist. Soon, Phil Collins’ You Can’t Hurry Love filtered through the apartment. “Oh, yeah. That’s the good stuff right there.”
“Eighties music?”
“The best music.”
He laughed and, unable to argue against irrefutable facts like that, led me into the kitchen. “I had grand plans to make it on my own, I swear. You’re always baking for others, so I figured having someone actually bake for you might be a nice change. But then, well…”
I almost missed what he gestured to, my heart latching onto his words like a lovesick leech.
No one had ever tried to bake for me before, especially once they found out that I baked for a living.
Unless I bought it from another bakery or store, I made it.
Always. And he’d actually thought to bake for me because of that.
Judging by the gooey, brown sludge-like mess in a pie tin he gestured to on the stove, he’d even tried to bake for me. And it had failed catastrophically.
I bit my lip, clenching my jaw so I wouldn’t smile. “It’s not so bad! The coloration is exciting, and there’s a variety of textures.” I leaned closer, inspecting the jiggly carnage. “It’s got promise. It’s very… what is it, exactly?”
He laughed, shoulders shaking. “It’s supposed to be flan.”
Now that he said it, I could almost see the resemblance between this and the creamy custard-like dessert popular in Latin American countries. “Ah, of course. That’s what I was going to guess.”
“You’re still a terrible liar, Dekker.”
I ignored him, wiggling the pie tin and watching the contents slush and wobble.
Knowing what it was supposed to be, I could pinpoint what had gone wrong.
For one, the caramel sauce was grainy, and a bit burnt, the eggy custard base was clumpy and overcooked, and likely hadn’t set or cooled properly before being turned over into this tin.
To be fair, flan wasn’t as simple as a box cake mix from the store, at least not when using the traditional methods.
“Which recipe did you use?”
He leaned against the counter, pressing his lips together in a line as if trying not to laugh at the failed flan, too. “My abuela’s . It’s been in the family for generations.”
I blushed, brushing my hands together. “Well, I hope your abuela will forgive me, because I’m going to make your life—and flan—a bit easier.”
“How so?” He bent down conspiratorially, whispering. “If it makes it so I can actually make flan, your secrets are safe with me.”
“Good.” I pointed at him, opening his cupboards to get a feel for where everything was. “I don’t need you siccing your grandma on me. She’ll win. Now, do you have a blender?”
He squatted and pulled out a high-quality Ninja blender. Not the most expensive option out there, but it could handle almost anything.
I blinked at it in shock. For not baking often, he had a killer blender. “That’ll work.”
I pulled my hair into a bun, my skin heating as he openly watched the movement with coals smoldering in his eyes.
The bun probably resembled a loofah with all my curls poofing everywhere, but oh well.
He clearly didn’t mind. I mean, he’d seen me in a donkey suit and the wedding dress ghost of eighties past. At this point, there was nowhere to go but up.
After swearing to uphold the secrecy and honor of the family recipe, he showed a photo of the handwritten recipe card he had on his phone. It, of course, was in Spanish, which he translated for me.
“One cup sugar,” I muttered to myself before addressing him. “Do you have a glass measuring cup?”
He supplied the item in question, a curious wrinkle in his brow. But he didn’t argue.
I poured a cup of sugar into the measuring glass with a half cup of water.
“Now, this is where the blasphemy happens,” I warned, putting the glass in the microwave. I set the timer and stepped back, looking at the rest of the recipe.
“What does that do?” he asked, nodding at the microwave. “Last time, I tried to make it on the stove like the recipe said.”
“This is just a little more foolproof and a whole lot easier. On the stove, it’s easy for the sugar to crystallize and make the whole caramel sauce grainy.”
He smirked, looking over my shoulder at the recipe and sending chills up my spine from his proximity. “So this is the simplified version I need so I don’t mess it up again.”
“It’s still possible to mess it up, so don’t get too excited.”
“But that’s why you’re here.” He shifted so he was at my side instead, finally allowing me to breathe easier. “You’re a professional.”
“Eh—” I waved him off, holding out his phone for him to take back. “Professionals aren’t perfect. Can you preheat the oven? I’m going to get some ramekins from my apartment, and I’ll be right back.”
He saluted me, eyes twinkling, and set to complete his duty.
Finding my ramekins took longer than I’d anticipated, mostly because I hadn’t used them since unpacking everything.
I balanced them in my hands as I made my way back to his apartment, hesitating outside his door.
He knew I was coming back, and I’d left it unlocked.
Would it be rude to just walk back in? Or would that be overstepping?
After debating with myself outside his door like a crazy person, I settled on knocking on the door as I walked in. Of course, knocking while opening a door was much easier without holding porcelain ramekins, so my knock was more like a love tap. But surely it was the thought that counted, right?
I padded into his apartment, the sounds of Bon Jovi’s Living on a Prayer playing from my speaker. When I neared the kitchen, I stopped short.
Max was dancing.
Badly .
I stifled a laugh, watching with amusement as he kicked and shimmied.
While it was mostly on beat, the uncoordinated movements certainly wouldn’t win any prizes on Dancing with the Stars .
When the guitar solo came on, he played his own air guitar as he hopped over to the fridge.
He sang along to the song, fudging half the lyrics as he pulled out some eggs.
Right as the epic key change came, he spun with his head bobbing enthusiastically, caught sight of me watching him, and froze.
The eggs dropped from his hands, cracking and splattering on the ground.
His eyes widened like dinner plates, and I swear I saw him swallow hard. “Dekker, hi. Uh, how long have you been standing there?”
“Not nearly long enough,” I squeaked out, losing the battle against the laughter trying to break out. I bit my lip, clearing my throat as if I’d been harboring a frog in there instead of a squadron of giggles. “Please, don’t stop on account of me.”
He laughed nervously as he stooped to wipe up the eggs. This was the most shaken I’d seen him. Ever. “I think we should get back to the recipe, actually.”
“That’s too bad, really,” I mused, unloading the ramekins onto the counter. “I’m pretty sure the next song is Don’t Stop Believing .”
He hesitated, washcloth squishing around the eggy mess.
I capitalized on this, relishing the temporary turning of the tables. For the first time, I caught him doing something weird or goofy. “There’s a pretty great guitar solo in that song as well, you know. All you’re missing are your backup singers and dancers.”
“In that case, I accept your offer.”
I paused. “What offer? I don’t remember offering anything.”
He flicked the eggshells and innards into the trash, his voice a little too casual. “Weren’t you offering to be my backup dancer?”
I laughed. “Uh-uh, mister. I don’t do ‘backup .’ I’m the main event.”
Believe me, I’ve tried not to be. But if his dance moves were bad, mine were deplorable. Kind of hard to blend into the background when you were so… talented.
He pretended to consider this, washing and wringing out the cloth. “Hmm, I suppose I can share the spotlight, then.” The beginning chords of Don’t Stop Believing played, and he raised an eyebrow. “Last chance. Not just anyone can share the stage with such a gifted dancer.”
I resisted, determined to let him have the brunt of the embarrassment for once.
Unfortunately, this song was, of course, amazing.
I pretended to focus wholeheartedly on pouring the caramel sauce into the bottom of each ramekin and putting them in the preheating oven.
He danced in his adorably awful way behind me, trying to lure me in.
I was about to add the first ingredient to the blender when he swooped me into a spin.
My protest died on my lips as I twirled closer to him.
He wiggled his eyebrows mischievously, singing along to Journey as the chorus rang out.
He held each of my hands in his own, moving with me in a graceless twist-like move.
I relented with a laugh, allowing myself to sing along.
Even though my moves could rival his own in how horrible they were, the way his smile lit up the room when I joined in was worth it.
I’d never had anyone to dance with as I baked.
Or period. And after experiencing that with Max, I didn’t want to go back. Ever.