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My chest caves in, and I rest against the wall. “Do you mind giving me a ride?”
Jace gets to his feet, then turns to me, offering his hand. I take it and hope that he doesn’t notice the way the warmth of his touch sets my entire body ablaze.
28
Harlow
Jace is in my kitchen, glaring at the instructions on the back of a box cake, and I don’t know how to feel about it. As soon as I got into his van, he mentioned he forgot to lock up the office and went back inside. Turns out, he was stealing the cake mix from the kitchen—the same cakes Jonah makes for kids’ birthday parties.
I sit on the kitchen counter, watching his eyebrows lower with each passing second. “I thought everything came in the box.”
I try to stifle my laugh, but he catches it anyway and turns his glare from the cake mix to me.
“It’s okay,” I assure. “I appreciate the sentiment, but you don’t have to bake me a cake.”
“But it’s your birthday,” he deadpans. “And we’re doing this.”
He pulls out his phone, I assume to check the time. “I’ll drive to Fremont. The store there should still be open… if I speed.”
“Jace…”
“But it’s your birthday,” he says again, focusing on the instructions. “I just need milk and eggs.”
I hop off the counter. “I have milk and eggs.”
“You do?” he asks, surprised.
“Who doesn’t have milk and eggs in their fridge?”
“Me.”
I open the fridge, pull out what he needs, and set them on the counter for him. “What do you have in your fridge then?”
“My grandpa’s beer, mostly.”
I freeze, my gaze refusing to move from the carton of eggs. “Oh.”
Jace doesn’t skip a beat. “It says I need a mixer. I can just use a spoon, right?”
An hour later, we’re standing side by side at the kitchen table, staring down at what’s supposed to be cake. Jace inhales a breath, long and loud. “Maybe I got the measurements wrong.”
The genuine concern in his tone warms my chest. “I’m sure it’s fine, it just looks a little…”
“Lopsided?”
I suggested we let the cake cool, hoping that would be enough to make it a little less… how it looks. It doesn’t seem to have changed. “Lopsided. Sure.”
He pokes the middle of the cake and hisses when it deflates completely, then sputters out what can only be described asooze. “Huh,” is all he says.
“Maybe there’s something wrong with my oven,” I try to soothe.
He turns to me. “You think?”
It’s so hard to keep a straight face. “Maybe.”
He eyes me sideways. “Are you lying?”
Try as hard as I can, I can’t contain my giggle.