Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 145731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Mia’s jaw drops. “She’s your matchmaker and you like her?” Mia asks, but it’s hardly a question. Since she’s too busy laughing for me to even answer her scarily accurate assessment of my situation.
Just like that, I know I’m screwed.
13
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.”