4. Chapter 4
Gigi
"You did what?"
I'm gripping my phone so tightly I'm surprised the screen doesn't shatter. On the other end, Joe Matthews—Super Bowl champion, hometown hero, and apparently part-time matchmaker—has the audacity to sound cheerful.
"I volunteered Phoenix to help you with your bake sale booth," he repeats, like this is perfectly normal. "You know, provide some muscle for the heavy lifting and charm the customers with his famous smile."
"Phoenix volunteered?" My voice climbs an octave. "Or you voluntold him?"
"Does it matter? The point is, you'll have an extra pair of hands, and his celebrity status will bring in huge donations for the fire department. Think of all the good they could do with the extra money."
I look around my kitchen, taking in the chaos of patriotic cupcakes covering every surface. The festival is tomorrow. I've been planning this booth for weeks, and now I have to do it with Hart Health's golden boy breathing down my neck?
"Joe, I can't—"
"You can't what? Handle one retired football player for a few hours? Come on, Gigi. I've seen you manage three weddings in one weekend. This'll be a piece of cake."
Piece of cake. The quarterback’s got jokes.
"That's not the point," I protest, absently wiping frosting off my hands with a kitchen towel. "The point is you can't just volunteer people for things without asking them first."
"I asked Phoenix. He said yes."
"You didn't ask me."
"I'm asking you now." There's a pause, and I can practically hear Joe's grin through the phone. "Besides, you're the one who wanted to make this the biggest bake sale the festival has ever seen. Something about 'showing this town what real desserts look like'?"
Ugh. Darn it. He's got me there. I did say that. Last year, after sampling the sad excuse for brownies that the hardware store contributed. And I’ve been planning to go all out—three dozen different types of cookies, cupcakes, pies, and my famous cinnamon crunch scones. I could use the help.
"That was before I knew you were planning to saddle me with your protein-powdered BFF."
"Phoenix is a good guy, Gigi. Give him a chance."
"He works for my parents."
"He works for a lot of people. That doesn't make him the enemy." Joe’s voice softens. "Look, you want to raise money for the fire department, right? Phoenix showing up will probably triple your sales."
He's not wrong.
But it’s not just that I don’t want Phoenix here. It’s that I don’t want to want him here.
The last thing I need is to start liking the poster boy for my parents’ empire. That path only leads to heartbreak and kale smoothies.
"Fine," I say, because arguing with Joe when he's got that determined quarterback tone is like trying to stop a freight train with a feather. "But if he tries to turn my bake sale booth into a Hart Health promotional opportunity, I’ll chop him into bits and bake my first mincemeat pie."
Joe laughs. "Deal. I’ll let him know he’s been warned."
"You’d better."
I hang up and stare at my phone for a long moment, then let out a groan.
Phoenix Wood. At my bake sale booth. For an entire day.
This is either going to be a complete disaster or… well, actually, no. There’s no “or.” This is definitely going to be a complete disaster.
My phone buzzes with a text from Ella: Heard through the grapevine that you got assigned a very handsome festival helper. How are we feeling about this?
I text back: Like I want to murder my best friend’s husband.
Her response is immediate: Uh-huh. Sure. Totally Joe you're thinking about murdering.
I set my phone down before I can respond to that particular piece of sass and turn back to my cupcakes. I have work to do. Lots of work. Enough work to keep me busy and definitely not thinking about Phoenix Wood or his stupid perfect smile.
Definitely not.
But as I start piping fresh frosting onto a new batch of red velvet cupcakes, I can’t help wondering what he’s going to think when he sees me in full festival mode.
Because Joe’s right about one thing—I don’t do anything halfway.
If Phoenix Wood thinks he can just show up and coast through this charity event, he’s in for a surprise.
Good luck, golden boy. You’re going to need it.