Chapter 30 #2
“And we need to make sure we have enough pretzels—both kinds—so we don’t run out again,” I add. “I’m going to do some ordering tonight.”
I figure that helps take some things off her plate since she’s been doing so much. But when she gives a not-quite-full smile, I’ve got the sense something has disappointed her.
“About that. The pretzels you sent last week weren’t gluten-free.”
“What?” That makes no sense. I ordered them. I grab my phone to double-check the invoice.
“They were fine, don’t get me wrong. I was able to use them for the regular sweet and salties. But the grocery store in Cozy Valley didn’t have any gluten-free ones that afternoon. I went out in the evening to get the gluten-free kind, so I was able to make some for the next day’s batch.”
Shit. That’s a lot of work for her. And the app doesn’t lie—I’m staring at the order, and I did hit the button for the wrong kind. “Why didn’t you tell me last week?”
“You had a hockey game,” she says. “And it was fine. Bakeries run out of items. Plus, I got them myself, so it was fine.”
She’s not wrong, but still. I feel like a fuck-up. “I’m sorry, Mabel. Let me make it up to you.”
She laughs me off. “Corbin, it’s not a big deal. We’re all good.”
But this mistake doesn’t sit well with me. I want to do my part, even if I’m not at Afternoon Delight as much as she is. Or even ten percent as often. My brain lands on an idea. “Hey,” I say, before she can head down the steps toward her car.
“Yes?”
“Last year, around Christmastime, I was helping my friend Rowan bake cookies for a sort of matchmaking-meets-speed-dating event. My agent took some pics of all of us baking at Rowan’s house.
Rowan, Tyler, and me. He joked that a pic of me and my sports-ball buds baking would help sell my future bakery.
” Even though I’ve opened a damn bakery with her, it still feels vulnerable as hell to admit how long I’ve wanted to do this.
“You’d better still have that.”
I’m glad she knows where I am going with this. “I’ll send it to you tonight. You want to post it?”
“Like, tomorrow. I will post it tomorrow. Got any other secret promo material you’re hiding?”
I hum like I’m considering the question even though I’m mostly stalling. “I’ll have to look.”
“You do that.”
“You know,” I say, thinking out loud. “We could host dating events with cookies. Maybe it’s a blind date with cookies. Or all sorts of baked goods. No one knows what they’ll be getting, just like—”
“You never know what you’ll get when you go out on a date!”
“Exactly.”
“I can see it now. Cookies are better than apps,” she says.
For a moment, my chest burns as I think about Mabel having used dating apps. I should leave the topic alone, but the words rush out of my mouth. “Have you been on the apps?”
Worse. Is she on them now? Shit. Why have we not discussed this?
Maybe because you keep saying it’s a one-time thing every time you touch her.
But before I can spiral into a stew of my own stupidity, Mabel scoffs. Loudly and far too amused. Or is it annoyance in her voice? “Seriously? Are you really asking me that?”
“Yes. I am.”
She folds her arms across her chest. “Are you?”
“On the apps?”
“Yes,” she bites out.
Is Mabel jealous? “Nope. Haven’t been in a long time.”
“Same here,” she says, with the stubborn air of someone digging in her heels.
My shoulders relax. “Thank fuck.”
She shakes her head in annoyed disbelief. “You think I’d sleep with you if I were seeing other people?”
Sleep with you. Those words sound too good on her lips, even chased with her annoyance.
“I hadn’t thought about it,” I admit.
“Well, think about it. Because it’s insulting.”
Oh, shit. She’s not just annoyed. She’s offended. This is the Mabel who pulls no punches, and I’ve pissed her off.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say, dragging a hand through my hair, trying to get my thoughts together.
“How did you mean it then? Other than to ask if I’m sleeping around? Just last week, I literally told you I was on a romance break, to focus on myself and our business. And you think I’d be on the apps then, just to, what, fuck?”
This is bad. She must think I’m a crass asshole. “I really didn’t mean that.”
She breathes out hard. “Then, maybe don’t ask questions like that. Questions that imply I’m sleeping around. Or, worse, lying.”
Is that what I implied? I rewind the conversation, and damn, my words do sound insulting. “Mabel, I was just trying to figure out—”
If we were exclusive when we were one-time-only fuck buddies? For fuck’s sake, this conversation is too hard to have.
But she blows out one breath, then another, then one more. “It’s fine,” she says, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s no big deal.”
Clearly, it is though. I hurt her because I was…jealous. Territorial.
“This is all new to me. This…thing,” I admit. “With us. Even though I know there’s no us.”
We are business partners, though, and we promised to navigate problems like adults would.
“I get it. Same here,” she says more calmly, maybe realizing that the conversation escalated far too quickly. “I just didn’t like the assumption. But it’s fine. I promise.”
I’m not buying her half smile though. “Are you sure?” I ask with real concern.
“I swear,” she says, holding up her hands in surrender.
I should apologize properly. But as I try to figure out what to say, her gaze sails to her car. “I should go,” she says.
And maybe it’s best if I let her. “I’m sorry. I’ll see you on Tuesday for pickleball practice.” I’m counting down to two days from now. The bakery’s closed Tuesdays, so it’s the best time to do it.
“Sounds good.” She stops in her tracks. “Theo rented out the entire court for us.”
I stand straighter, worry shooting through me. Is he going to babysit us now that he knows we’ve kissed? “Is he coming?”
“No. I wouldn’t let him. He just didn’t want any distractions, so I guess it’s you and me and a pickleball game.”
Ordinarily, that would sound tempting. But her pretty eyes don’t flicker with secrets between the two of us. They’re hard, like she needs to protect herself.
“I’ll focus solely on pickleball,” I say.
“Me too,” she says with resignation, then whirls around, trots down the steps, heads to her car, and slides inside.
I watch her the whole time as she drives away, the arc of her headlights swooping down the street then turning the corner, out of sight.
I wish that had lasted longer. I wish she’d come back. I wish I knew what to say.
Heaving a sigh, I drag a hand through my hair and head back out to the deck. I slump down next to Riggs.
He shakes his head, muttering, “Good luck with that.”
“Thanks, man.”
I need it. Because I’ve got no clue what just went wrong. But I know this much—I have to fix it.
Once everyone’s gone and Charlotte’s in bed, I collapse onto the couch and tap out a text.
Corbin: I’m sorry. If you were here, I’d bring you flowers, or bake apology cookies, or give you a dress, or braid your hair.
I should have asked that in a different way.
Mostly, the thought of you being on the apps drove me a little insane.
If I can’t have you, I don’t want anyone else to.
Which is caveman of me. Sorry for being a caveman.
Mabel: You are the last thing from a caveman. Also, I don’t want anyone else to have you either.
It’s like a shot of adrenaline to the heart. Or the dick. Maybe both.
Corbin: No one else does.
Mabel: Good. But also, we promised to work through arguments like adults. How are we doing?
Corbin: I give us a ten out of ten. Like our bars, brownies, and blondies.
Mabel: Same. But you do not owe me an apology for anything.
She might be right, but I’ll probably do something anyway.