Chapter 12
Iwake up the next morning with multiple frustrating texts from my sister.
Kate: Lydia and I have been talking and we think that you need a wardrobe refresh
Jane: I have neither the time nor the budget to accommodate a wardrobe refresh
Jane: plus I like my clothes
Kate: well you’re the only one
Jane: oh
Kate: Don’t worry I’ve added this on to my very busy schedule. :)
Jane: again, I have no budget. I don’t know if you heard, but I have to go to a wedding in the Amalfi Coast in a couple months. The bride is super bougie.
Kate: ????♀?
Jane: ??
Kate: [link attached] wear this dress to the couple’s shower
Kate: In pink
Kate: I did your color testing in an app. You’re a summer
Kate: This will be perfect for you. It’s at the Pink Poppy Boutique
Kate: I already bought it for you, so you can’t say no. Lydia is dropping it off. You can Venmo me :)
With a sigh, I send a thumbs up emoji. I’ll wear the stupid dress.
Mostly so I didn’t have to rifle through Lola’s closet again for the rest of the wedding events, but there’s no way in hell I’m letting Kate overhaul my entire closet.
I like splurging on nice shoes or purses because I can use them all the time.
I don’t go to enough events to justify sixteen expensive cocktail dresses. Three, though, I think I can manage.
As I lock the screen and move to set my phone down, another text alert pops up.
Lola: I’m going to be a little late. Got caught up at home
Jane: don’t need to know about your alone time with Kai
Jane: just let me know when you’re on your way
Lola: ????
With my hands on my hips, I look around the kitchen, my eyes landing on my ingredients on the counter and my to-do list beside it. I have so much to bake, I think I’ll have to spend all day today in the kitchen to finish it all in time.
But this is for Kate. And Jason, I suppose. I’d do anything for her, including spending my Saturday burning my fingers by taking hot cookies off baking trays and making a ridiculous amount of bite-sized desserts.
No sense in waiting for Lola with all I have to do. I might as well get started and she can just jump in when she’s here. I lift my baby blue stand mixer onto the counter and set the mixing bowl in place. I toss the softened butter in and hit the button for it to mix.
When a knock sounds at the door, I glance at the clock, then breathe a massive sigh of relief.
Thank god, Lola is here. I was lying when I said I could handle it all on my own.
I desperately need her help. Taking the few steps across my tiny apartment, I open the door only to freeze dead in my tracks.
I hate how Reid’s blue-gray eyes make the air leave my lungs. And I especially hate the way when they lift from the bag dangling from his hands to my own gaze, that it makes my heart rate spike.
“You’re not Lola,” I say.
“Great observation.”
“Sorry, I meant what do you think you’re doing here and also how did you get my address?”
He lifts the bag. “Dropping off dishes and I got it from Kate.”
“Great. Now I have to move so you can never find me again.”
With a huffed laugh, he steps around me and saunters into my apartment. I spin around, hand still on the doorknob so the door opens wider.
“Hey! I didn’t say you could come in.” I gesture a hand to the open door, not so subtly telling him to get out.
He looks at me over his broad shoulder, his lips hitching up in the corner.
“I’m just dropping off dishes, not trying to hang out.
Relax.” He sets the bag on my tiny dining table shoved up against the wall and turns toward the running mixer.
It’s almost like the foodie in him can’t stay away from someone making something in the kitchen because he steps to it like a moth to a flame. “What are you doing?” he asks.
I begrudgingly drop the doorknob and shut the door. I don’t need neighbors thinking this is an open invitation. I walk over and stand next to him, crossing my arms over my chest. “Baking.”
“For fun?”
“No, Sherlock, for the shower.”
The shower is tomorrow, Jane.”
“I am well aware, thanks.”
He leans over the counter and peers inside the mixer. “There’s only butter in here.”
“Yes, that’s usually how I start cake.”
Reid’s head whips toward mine, eyes wide in alarm. “I’ve been preparing food all week and you’re just starting all this?”
I thankfully have cookies and cupcakes thawing on the counter from the freezer so I can frost them later, but I don’t feel like I owe him an explanation. And I desperately want to prove to him that I can pull together all the things I promised Kate in a short period of time, thank you very much.
“I’ve been a little bit busy with work this week.”
“Busy knocking into people and shattering plates?”
I rest a hip against the counter and cross my arms over my chest. “This joke is getting really old, you know.”
He smiles and I swear I see his dimple for half a second, there and gone in the blink of an eye. Wordlessly, Reid walks to my sink and turns on the water, then pumps soap into his hand.
“Stop wasting my water,” I command him. He scoffs and continues rinsing the soap off his hands. I am ashamed to admit I watch for entirely too long.
“I’m washing my hands so they’re sanitary,” he finally says.
“Use someone else’s kitchen to wash off the subway germs.”
He turns off the water and dries his hands on my dish towel before flicking it over his shoulder.
I’m sure it’s a habit he picked up at work and didn’t even realize he was doing, but it still catches me off guard how in his element he looks here, in my kitchen, with my floral pink dish towel slung over his broad shoulder.
“First of all,” he starts, breaking me out of my trance. “I took an Uber here. Second, I’m washing my hands to help you.”
“You . . . what?”
He’s already studying my to-do list. After a beat, he finally lifts his eyes to mine and I swear I forget how to breathe when he says, “I’m helping you.”
“Why?”
“Because it wouldn’t be a fair competition if you just dropped out and panic-purchased a premade grocery store cake.”
I stare at him in disbelief. “Isn’t it cheating if you help make them? I’m sure that’s against some competition rule.”
“You mean for the competition you and I challenged each other to? I think we get to make the rules.”
“You’re helping me for a fair competition? Not so you get to brag to everyone and look like a hero?”
“That’s just an added bonus.” He steps out of my touch and I drop my hand so quickly you’d think it was on fire.
Which is the exact opposite of how it feels without his contact now.
I draw in a breath and turn to find him lifting my stack of recipe cards and shuffling through them.
Without looking up from the cards, he points to the mixer.
“Which type of cake is this? You have three recipes here.”
“White with raspberry filling.”
He lets out a low whistle. “Alright, well, we better get to it.”
Reid tries to take a step around me, but I reach a hand out and press it against his chest. I swear his pulse thrums under my fingers, but I don’t have time to focus on that right now. Or on the way his reaction makes my own heart stutter. The muscles in his throat work as he swallows.
My voice is low and fragile as I repeat, “Why?”
His eyes bore into mine for a moment, almost like he’s really debating his next words. Finally, quietly, he says, “Because you need it.”
There’s something in me that wants to refuse his help.
Partly because I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of needing him.
Okay, mostly that. But also because I’m, unfortunately, a very prideful woman.
I don’t want to ask for help, and if I do, I have a very small, very trusted circle of exactly three people I would ask, and Reid is not in that circle.
The rejection is on the tip of my tongue, but another glance at the clock, coupled with the list I’ve been reciting in my head all morning, has me biting the word back and nodding to him.
“And because these are supposed to be the best desserts I’ve ever had in my entire miserable life, aren’t they?”
I roll my eyes, a new fire of encouragement burning in me. Because now I really do need his extra set of hands to get this done, and to prove that I am, in fact, an excellent baker. “Okay, fine. But you’re my sous chef here. I call the shots, and I get the glory.”
He smirks. “Obviously.” He sets the cards down and leans against the counter, crossing his arms over his broad chest. The pose has me considering kicking him out, because how the hell am I supposed to focus when he looks so annoyingly good in a white T-shirt and jeans? “What’s first, boss?”
“Boss?” I muse. “I could get used to that.”
“I wouldn’t.”
With a laugh, I pull my favorite pink apron over my head and tie it around my back. “You add the eggs and vanilla, I’ll handle the dry mixture for this.”
“Perfect.” He drags the carton closer to himself, checking the recipe before cracking them in one by one. My eyes are stuck on his expert actions, the way his fingers move, the flick of his wrist. When did baking become a turn-on for me?
Reid clears his throat and I jump, fumbling with my stack of measuring cups and dropping them all on the counter.
I stop them from rolling to the floor before glaring up at him.
A smirk plays on his lips and I narrow my eyes at him, mostly because I’m embarrassed and the best way to cope with being busted is to blame him.
“Can you pass the vanilla extract?”
“Yes,” I answer, sliding the bottle over to him to avoid our hands brushing romantically. That’s the last thing I need from him right now if him cracking eggs is enough to make me feel some type of way.
I dutifully ignore him as I measure the dry ingredients into another bowl, but I’m so painfully aware of his presence. After whisking it all together, I shove the bowl at him.
“Here, slowly add this into the bowl and I’ll get started on the filling so it can cool.”
His voice is amused as he asks, “Did you do that on purpose?”
“Do what?” I grab another mixing bowl then look up at him, the very act I’ve been avoiding for the past ten minutes. He’s smiling at me, amusement alight in his eyes.
He points a finger at my face. “That whole purposefully put something on your face so I have to wipe it off trick?”
My eyes widen, cheeks heating. “There’s something on my face?”
In front of him? How mortifying.
My hands fly to both cheeks, frantically patting the skin to find what’s on there.
My right hand connects with a wet splotch of batter and the heat of the blush only deepens.
Not even a cute little dusting of flour on my nose.
It’s a whole splatter of uncooked batter on my cheek. How did that even get there?
Frantically I spin, on an immediate hunt for my dish towel to clean the mess as soon as possible. The second I turn, though, I find him standing two steps away with a delighted grin on his face and my dishtowel in his hand. That’s right. It was on his stupidly broad shoulder this whole time.
I pause my panic and he closes the distance between us.
I back up until my back hits the countertop.
My hand is still clamped on my cheek and I watch with bated breath and he gently wraps his fingers around my wrist and lowers it, his gaze never leaving mine.
The intensity in his stare has my heartbeat kicking up a notch.
He finally breaks eye contact to focus on dabbing the batter from my fingers first, a smirk still playing on his lips. I take his distraction to study those lips, the unwelcome thought of what they might feel like against mine sweeping into my mind.
His eyes flick up and find mine again.
“You’re cute when you’re panicked,” he muses.
“Cute isn’t the compliment you think it is,” I say, but the words come out embarrassingly breathless. I clear my throat. His smile widens, that damn dimple popping.
I drag my focus to my now clean hand, pretending to inspect it for any batter residue. He hooks his fingers under my chin, forcing my eyes up to his again and I swear my whole body is on fire now. He turns my cheek slightly and dabs the towel lightly on my still sticky cheek.
“Well you must already know how beautiful you are. I was trying to find a new compliment for you. One you’ve never heard before.”
“Why is that?”
When he’s finished wiping my cheek he uses the fingers still under my chin to refocus my attention on him. A spark flaring in his eyes, suddenly appearing a much deeper shade of blue.
“So you’d know just how much I really don’t hate you.” I arch a brow at him and his smile widens, dimple deepening. He flicks the towel over his shoulder again and rests his freehand on the counter next to me, leaning in closer to me. “I’m serious.”
“You’ve never been serious about a woman in your entire life.”
“It just takes one special one to change everything.”
I realize he’s just a breath away now. I could just rise up on my toes and kiss him if I wanted to.
And wow, did I want to.
I’m drawing in a breath, preparing to make the move, when three swift knocks sound at my door, pulling me back to reality.
I want to groan in disappointment. Anger. Irritation at whoever has the audacity to show up at my apartment at this very second. Reid must be feeling the exact same thing because a muscle clenches in his jaw as he steps back slowly, his hand dropping from under my chin.
I put all two tragic inches of space between us as Lola steps inside, a cloth tote bag hanging off her elbow and cups of coffee in either hand. She bumps the door shut with her hip.
“I’m sorry! Coffee Corner was crazy again, but I’m—” Lola’s eyes widen when she finally clocks me still trapped beside Reid. “Oh. Oh. Sorry, I’ll go. I’m definitely interrupting something.”
I narrow my eyes at her, trying desperately to get her to stop talking. She raises an eyebrow at me, the corner of her mouth turning up in the faintest smirk.
“No,” Reid says. I drag my gaze from my best friend to him. His eyes are still boring into mine and I briefly wonder if he ever looked away from me in the last twenty seconds. “I’ll go.”
His chest is rising and falling as he slowly steps back, his gaze not leaving mine until he has to turn toward the door.
He dips his chin in a nod to Lola—who is watching with wide eyes and an open mouth like this is her new favorite TV show—before walking out the door, shutting it behind him, and not looking back.
“I definitely interrupted something,” Lola mutters.
“You definitely did,” I mutter, still staring at the now-closed door and wondering what his kiss might’ve felt like if my best friend had just shown up five minutes later.