Chapter 13 All This and I Can Bake
ALL THIS AND I CAN BAKE
ROWAN
With his hands parked on his hips like a drill sergeant, Corbin surveys the grocery store haul I’ve dumped on the counter. His expression is deeply, personally offended.
He scans the flour, chocolate chips, butter, brown sugar, vanilla, and other ingredients. His disapproval deepens when his gaze lands on the peanut butter—homemade by me, of course—and Hershey’s Kisses.
“What?” I say, already defensive. “Wesley gave us a recipe for peanut butter blossoms. He swears they’re elite.”
Corbin rubs his temples like he’s getting an early migraine. “Rowan. Peanut butter blossoms are fine. But I told you, you’ll win if you make fudge cookies with orange ganache.”
“Dude,” I say, pointing at him, then to myself. “I can’t make fudge with ganache. I don’t even know what ganache is.”
Tyler, who’s been munching chocolate chips like popcorn, swivels toward me. “It sounds like a fancy knot I don’t know how to tie.”
“Honestly,” I say, thinking, “it sounds like something you buy in a bougie furniture store that you don’t actually need. Like, I’ll take a chaise lounge and a ganache to go with it.”
Corbin tips his head back, staring at the ceiling. “Why,” he mutters. “Why must I work with these idiots?”
I flash him an asshole grin. “Every day, man. Every day, I ask myself the same thing.”
Though technically, he doesn’t work with us. Corbin plays for our rivals in the city—the Golden State Foxes. But we don’t hold that against him at our get-togethers. Or the single dad’s club, as Isla calls it.
I picture the clever smile on her pretty lips when she said that the other day on our way to the tree farm. The twinkle in her blue eyes. And I swear, I catch a hint of that sweet and tart cherry scent that is her signature.
And…I’d better not drift off into memories of my agent’s sister. My best friend’s sister. My matchmaker.
I have to play along. Fake interest in this matchmaking for the sake of my friends. And the cookie swap tomorrow night is part of the game. I’ll show up, feign some interest, find someone to go to the gala with, then be on my fucking way to singlehood again.
I snap my focus back to Corbin, who’s stalking over to the kitchen table, where he left a grocery bag.
He brings it back to the counter and unpacks some chocolate and cream.
With a long, clearly aggrieved sigh, he plants his hands on the counter and announces, “Ganache. A sweet, creamy chocolate mixture used especially as a filling or frosting.”
Tyler smacks my arm. “How do you not know that? How is that not, like, on your word-a-day calendar?”
“I do know what it is. I was just fucking with him.”
Tyler snorts. “Well played.”
I turn to Corbin. “Man, there is nothing like winding you up.” Then I grin again. “Also, I fucking knew you’d show up with the ingredients.”
Corbin groans. “Did you invite me to help, or am I just here for you two to screw around with?”
I scratch my jaw, pretending to think. “Honestly? Little of both.”
Corbin feints toward my front door like he’s ready to walk out, but he won’t. He volunteered for this. He insisted on it, actually, after claiming I “couldn’t bake for shit” last night when we dads hung out in Cozy Valley.
At which point, I told him I have a child. I know how to bake. At which point, he told me his baking was better, because he had his mom’s recipes, plus he’s sworn he’ll open a damn bakery someday.
Now, here we are. Three hockey players, baking Christmas cookies in the middle of a Friday, while our kids are at school.
“Wait, wait,” Corbin says suddenly, his eyes narrowing. “Did anyone bring an apron?”
I yank open the pantry and pull mine out. “It’s black,” I say.
Tyler and Corbin glance at each other, then say in unison, “Like your soul.”
I nod, proudly.
Corbin whips his own apron out of a canvas bag he brought and ties it on, the words ALL THIS AND I CAN BAKE emblazoned across the bib.
Tyler, unimpressed, shrugs. “Didn’t bring one.”
Corbin waggles his phone, like see, you sucker. “Guess you can’t be in the picture.”
Tyler frowns. “Wait. You’re taking pics of this?”
“Do you have any idea how much the Internet loves three sports-ball guys baking Christmas cookies?” Corbin shoots back.
Tyler clears his throat: “Translation: you want this for when you eventually open your bakery.”
“Damn right I do,” Corbin says, but for a moment, a storm cloud seems to pass over his head.
That happens sometimes when he talks about the bakery he plans to open when he retires, though that’s a ways off.
There’s some regret there, but he shakes it away, bringing us all into the picture, and we smile for the camera.
When he’s done, he fiddles with his phone for a minute, then puts it back in his pocket, tucking that regret far, far away too as he declares: “Now let’s get to work. ”
He takes charge, measuring sugar for the peanut butter blossoms first. He moves fast, precise, like this is just another day running his imaginary future bakery, while I reach for the peanut butter.
“So how exactly does this thing work?” Corbin asks as he pours a scoop into a glass mixing bowl.
Tyler snorts. “I thought you knew how to bake. You’ve been bragging about it all day.”
“I mean the cookie swap, you ass.” Corbin rolls his eyes, then turns to me. “You wouldn’t say much about it. Mostly just mumbled and dodged. It’s a contest, right? You said you wanted to win?”
Well, I might need to clear that up. I grab a measuring cup for the peanut butter, and a spoon. “Actually, you said it. I just didn’t deny it.”
“Asshole,” he mutters.
“But really, everything’s a contest,” Tyler points out.
“True. True,” I acknowledge.
“So, what is it then? This cookie swap?” Corbin presses.
I tighten my grip on the measuring cup, scraping peanut butter off the spoon like it requires all my focus. The words stick in my throat for a second, like I have to force myself to say them.
But why? Why the fuck am I struggling?
I half want to tell them the truth—that I don’t want to go on dates this holiday season, that I don’t want to pretend I’m looking for love.
December twenty-fifth will always be the day the mother of my child erected a headstone for my heart in the graveyard of romance.
I’d rather skip this day on the calendar.
Sleep through it. Ignore it entirely. But honestly, my friends know most of that.
They know my feelings too well. That’s why they’re here, showing up and helping out.
Because they want me to move the fuck on from that kind of heartbreak.
So I’d better not grumble. Even if I don't want to swap cookies at the event with any of the women…except Isla.
Wait. What the hell? Is that why I’m struggling to tell my friends the details of the cookie swap? Because I want something else entirely from it?
Like…more flirting with Isla Marlowe. I picture offering her a peanut butter blossom cookie.
Watching her dip it in hot cocoa with a satisfied smile while telling me she predicted I’d make that cookie, then whipping out her goddamn color-coded planner and triumphantly showing me the list she made the night before—Three Things Rowan Bishop Will Do at the Cookie Swap.
The corner of my lips twitches, but I do my best to fight off a grin at the image. I’d taunt her right back, daring her to take a bite, then watching her lips as she savored it.
It’s not an awful image at all.
But I’ve got to snap myself out of this stupid daydream. I need to stop overthinking my crush on her. Just get through it and make it to the other side.
I clear my throat, about to explain the cookie swap when a loud rap on the door echoes through my home. I’m not expecting anyone, but maybe it’s a delivery? Could be more books for Mia. Grabbing my phone, I swipe open the camera app, then toss my head back and laugh. “Who invited Marlowe?”
Corbin flashes a guilty as charged grin. “Me. I need better pics of us baking,” he says. “Action shots are better than posed ones.”
I roll my eyes. “So you called our agent?”
Tyler snorts. “Double dipper,” he says to Corbin.
“I’ll say,” I second.
Corbin frowns dramatically. “Aww, does it hurt your feelings that I’m getting pics and helping your sorry ass bake?”
“Honestly, it does,” I say, but I don’t quite mean it.
Fact is, Corbin’s got a good head for business.
Dude is sharp and strategic. Pics of him and his “sports-ball buds” baking would probably help sell his future bakery.
“And I want a cut of sales when you plaster our photos on the walls of All This and I Can Bake someday. Hey, I just named your future bakery. Double my percentage.”
“Done,” Corbin says. “And just in case math isn’t your strong suit, zero doubled is still nothing.”
After I flip him the flour-covered bird, I wipe my hands on the apron and head to the door. “If it isn’t the resident photographer,” I say as I swing it open.
“And jack-of-all-trades, evidently.” Jason comes inside, toeing off his shoes.
“An agent’s job is never done.”
Jason heads into the kitchen with me, and as the three of us get to work, he snaps pics of us baking and mixing.
When Jason lowers the phone a little, he eyes the cookie trays.
“This a cookie date or something for Rowan? Corbin just texted to say I needed to take pics of all you guys baking. But I didn’t get any more intel. ”
“Yeah, Bishop. Fess up,” Corbin tells me. “You’ve been keeping your deep, dark cookie swap details from us.”
“Right, right. That’s what I’ve been doing while you’ve been arranging baking photo ops,” I say as I open the oven and slide in the first tray of peanut butter blossoms.
When I close the door, I explain at last. “Isla’s setting up a kind of speed-dating thing for tomorrow. Three guys, three women. We all meet, exchange cookies, and chat.”
“That sounds so wholesome,” Corbin says.
The ideas man, always at work, points to Corbin. “Maybe you should host cookie swaps at your future bakery.”
Corbin’s eyes flicker, and he grabs his phone, dictating a note into it before setting it down. “That’s kind of a cool way to meet someone.”
Tyler arches a brow my way. “But aren’t you worried, Rowan?”
“About what?” I ask, spooning batter onto the next tray.
Tyler smirks. “That all of the women are going to be into the other guys there.”
I smack him upside the head.
“Ouch,” Tyler says, rubbing his temple.
“Good. It was supposed to hurt,” I say.
Jason comes to my rescue as he answers Tyler. “That won’t happen. Want to know why?”
“I do,” Corbin says.
Jason squeezes my biceps with affection. “Because Rowan’s unstoppable even when he’s up against some fierce opponents—and he’s got an open mind about dating. Don’t you, Rowan?”
Why do I feel like Jason’s selling this to my friends? No—not to them. To me. “Do I?” I counter, full of skepticism.
“C’mon,” Jason says. “This is going to be good. It’s about time, isn’t it?” He shoots me an earnest look, like he believes this cookie swap might lead to something real, and I feel a little shitty about my plan to fake my way through all his sister’s setups.
Only a little.
“Whatever happened to your words from the other day?” I say, deflecting. “It’ll be good, even if it’s not forever? Now, you’re saying it’s going to be forever? Make up your mind, man.”
Jason rolls his eyes. “It’s just cookies. But it’s also not just cookies. It’s a start. A real start. One date can lead to another. And then to…who even knows.” He finishes with a hopeful smile.
Ah, shit. Jason really believes there’s someone out there for damaged old me.
He believes in—gulp—the possibility of forever.
It’s nice and all that Jason thinks I deserve love.
But the reality is, romance doesn’t grab a mic and say you deserve me like a talk show host doling out cars as gifts.
Romance is a car. It can still break down and leave you stranded on the side of the road, taking care of the kid all by yourself, and having to explain to her why her mom left.
I don’t want my best bud to get too hooked on the idea of me signing up for forever, or even something real. “It kind of feels like just cookies,” I point out, digging the spoon into the batter again.
“Nope,” Jason says, shaking his head. “It’s you—putting yourself out there. That’s a big deal. That’s why we’re all here, right?”
He sounds like a coach, making a speech before the playoffs. With zero sarcasm, Corbin chimes in with a “hell yes.”
Tyler gives me a genuine smile as he seconds him. “Yup. We’re here for you.”
Jason turns back to me. “Proud of you for putting yourself out there.”
Guilt worms through me like a marble, rolling around.
I stare intensely at the tray as I drop another spoonful of batter onto it.
Jason’s such a glass-half-full, hopeful guy, but I’m not sure he’d be so proud if he knew what I was up to.
Not sure he’d be so proud either that I’d been thinking dirty thoughts about his sister.
A dark cloud swirls over me. I hate letting my friends down, especially Jason, since he’s been with me through thick and thin. “We’ll see,” I say, hoping that’s enough for him for now.
But when I look up from the tray, my best friend’s eyes flash with…disappointment. Shit. I really hate letting him down. “Hey, I’m going tomorrow, aren’t I?”
We get to work making ganache while I try not to think about Isla taking a bite of a peanut butter blossom cookie.