Chapter 5 #2
Adam's watching me with this expression—half admiration, half amusement. "I have no idea what any of those words mean, but I trust you."
His complete faith in my abilities is both flattering and pressure-inducing. I'm suddenly very aware that I want to impress him, want him to see me confident and competent in my element.
"Okay." I take a breath, shift into professional mode. "You're on berry prep. Hull the strawberries, slice them thin. I'll handle the phyllo."
We have one hour, a makeshift outdoor kitchen setup, and chemistry that's becoming increasingly impossible to ignore. Adam follows my instructions with surprising skill, his large hands working carefully, precisely.
"You're actually good at this," I observe, watching him hull strawberries with perfect efficiency.
He glances up, that devastating smile playing at his lips. "I'm good at following directions when the teacher is worth paying attention to."
Heat floods my cheeks. The flirtation is easy now, natural, like we've been doing this dance for years instead of days or weeks.
We fall into a rhythm—me creating, him executing, both of us laughing when phyllo dough tears or berries roll off the cutting board.
At one point, a dollop of whipped cream somehow lands on my nose.
Before I can wipe it away, Adam's there, his thumb brushing across my skin with devastating gentleness.
"You had a little..." He doesn't finish the sentence, just maintains eye contact while his thumb lingers, then places his thumb to his mouth to lick off the cream.
My breath catches. The competition fades away—there's only Adam, the sultry movement of his thumb brushing his lips, the intensity in his dark eyes.
"Thanks," I whisper.
We're standing too close in the small workspace, shoulders grazing, hands brushing with every reach for ingredients. Other teams are working around us, voices and laughter filling the air, but I only see him.
He keeps stealing glances at me between tasks—quick looks that feel like caresses, lingering just long enough to make my pulse race.
At one point, he reaches over me for the honey, effectively caging me against the table. His chest presses against my back, his arm extending past my shoulder, and I'm surrounded by his warmth and scent and presence.
"Excuse me," he murmurs, but he doesn't move immediately.
I'm pinned between the table and his body, caught in the delicious tension of almost-touching. My heart hammers so loud I'm certain he can hear it.
"You're not excused," I say boldly, surprising myself with my own courage.
His eyes darken, voice dropping lower. "Careful, June. There are witnesses."
"Maybe I don't care."
For a heartbeat, I think he might kiss me right here, in front of everyone. The want is written all over his face. But Emma's voice breaks the moment like a splash of cold water.
"How's it going?"
We spring apart, both flushed. Adam clears his throat, runs a hand through his hair. I busy myself with the mint, trying to remember how to form coherent thoughts.
Final plating happens in a blur of focused creativity.
I arrange the deconstructed tart with artistic precision—phyllo shards standing at angles, macerated berries glistening with honey, dollops of mint-infused whipped cream placed just so.
Adam drizzles honey with steady precision, his large hands surprisingly delicate.
"Perfect," I breathe, stepping back to admire our work.
It's beautiful, professional, clearly the best entry on the table.
But I barely care about winning—I care about the way Adam's hand settles on my lower back as we present our dessert to the judges, the pride in his eyes when he looks at our creation, the way he leans close and whispers, "We make a good team. "
The words burrow into my chest, taking root. We make a good team. Not just in baking. In everything.
While the judges deliberate, the crowd pulls us in different directions. Mrs. Henderson materializes like she's been lying in wait, eyes gleaming with matchmaking triumph.
"You two work together beautifully," she announces loud enough for half the block to hear.
Mrs. Morrison appears at her shoulder, nodding enthusiastically. "Such chemistry! Don't you think, Patricia?" She elbows her friend, who mutters agreement while trying to escape.
I want to deflect, to laugh it off, but then Adam's hand finds mine. His fingers lace through mine deliberately, confidently—a public claim in front of everyone.
My heart stops. We haven't defined what this is, haven't talked about labels or expectations. But he's holding my hand in front of the entire neighborhood, in front of the gossips and the matchmakers and everyone who will absolutely make this the talk of the town for weeks.
Across the crowd, I catch Harper's eye. She grins, giving me an enthusiastic thumbs up. Maya's practically vibrating with excitement, fist pumping the air from her seat.
The announcement comes: "First place goes to Team Callahan-Lane!"
Emma's shriek of joy is deafening. She throws herself at both of us, wrapping her small arms around our legs. Adam's hand leaves mine only to scoop Emma up, and suddenly we're caught in this moment—the three of us celebrating together, laughing, and it feels so much like family my chest aches.
The crowd applauds. Someone whistles. Mrs. Henderson looks like she might cry from sheer romantic satisfaction.
In the chaos of celebration and congratulations, Adam gently sets Emma down and pulls me aside slightly, just enough for a pocket of semi-privacy in the crowded street.
"Is this okay?" he asks, voice low, gesturing subtly to where our hands had been joined. "I know we haven't talked about... whatever this is."
My breath catches at his uncertainty, the vulnerability underneath his confidence. "It's more than okay."
Relief floods his expression. "Good. Because I'm not interested in hiding whatever is happening between us."
The declaration makes my heart race, sending warmth flooding through my entire body. He wants this publicly, wants everyone to know, wants to claim me as openly as I want to claim him.
"Me neither," I whisper.
His smile is devastating. He reaches for my hand again, and this time when his fingers lace through mine, it feels like a vow.
We're still basking in our victory, hands linked and hearts racing, when Mrs. Henderson approaches the microphone at the makeshift judging table.
"June, dear," her voice booms across the party, "aren't these your grandmother's famous love cookies? The ones meant to inspire romance?"
I want the ground to open up and swallow me whole.
The entire crowd erupts in delighted "oooohs" and knowing laughter. My face flames hot enough to bake bread.
Adam turns to me, eyebrow raised, amusement dancing in his dark eyes. "Ah yes, the magic love cookies."
"It's just a family recipe," I stammer, wanting to disappear. "A silly tradition. They're just cookies, they don't actually—"
He releases my hand only to reach for one of the love cookies from my display. Maintains direct eye contact. Brings it to his mouth slowly, deliberately. Then he takes a bite.
I forget how to breathe.
"Delicious," he says, voice dropping to that low register that does dangerous things to my pulse, and my ovaries. "Though I don't think I need cookies to inspire anything where you're concerned."
My brain short-circuits. Every coherent thought evaporates under the heat of his gaze and the implication in his words.
"I want one!" Emma bounces between us, mercifully oblivious to the charged undercurrent crackling between us. "Can I have a love cookie, June?"
"Of course, sweetheart." I hand her one with trembling fingers, grateful for the interruption before I combust right here in front of everyone.
Emma takes a bite, considers seriously. "It tastes like Christmas and hugs."
Adam laughs, the sound warm and genuine. "That's the perfect description."
The party continues around us—music starting up from someone's portable speaker, kids shrieking as they run around, the sizzle and smoke of grills working overtime. We drift back toward our dessert table, away from the epicenter of chaos, and find ourselves with a bit of quiet.
Adam sits beside me, close enough our shoulders touch. Comfortable silence fills the space between us, but it's charged with awareness, heavy with everything building between us.
"So," he says eventually, "love cookies. Is that your way of putting spells on unsuspecting firefighters?"
I dare a glance at him, find him watching me with soft amusement. "Maybe. Is it working?"
"You know it is."
The admission hangs between us, significant and sweet. His hand finds mine again under the table, hidden from view but solid and real. His thumb traces circles on my palm, a gentle, hypnotic rhythm that makes my whole body thrum.
I lean into his shoulder slightly, let myself have this moment—the sunshine, the music, the feeling of his hand in mine and the knowledge that he wants this as much as I do.
We stay like that, hands linked and hearts open, while the block party swirls around us and the future feels bright and possible and terrifyingly wonderful.
"June Callahan. Look at you, winning dessert competitions."
The voice cuts through my happiness like a blade. I freeze, every muscle tensing, before I turn.
Tyler Owen stands three feet away, hands in his pockets, that same confident smile I once found charming and now recognize as self-satisfied. He's objectively attractive—tall, blonde, the kind of clean-cut handsome that photographs well—and he knows it. Has always known it.
"Tyler." My voice comes out flat. "What are you doing here?"
"Visiting my parents. Heard there was a block party." His eyes slide to Adam, assessing, calculating. "And you are?"
I feel Adam tense beside me, his hand still holding mine under the table. He stands slowly, deliberately, and I realize he's taller than Tyler by a few inches. Broader. More solid.
"Adam Lane." His voice is even, controlled. "June's..." He pauses, looking at me, letting me define it.