Page 30 of Delicious (Delicious #1)
Chapter One
Cameron
I browse social media apps on my phone while I wait for the school bell. Since I became the responsible adult in the house, I’ve made sure to be here at least five minutes early. Me. Responsible for taking care of my ten-year-old brother while our dad is away with work. I’m still wrapping my head around it. Hopefully, I’m doing a good job. Dad wasn’t keen on the arrangement—he thinks it’s a lot of responsibility for a twenty-five-year-old—but Elliott didn’t want to get dragged to Hong Kong for six months. Dad’s been away for a month, and the two of us are doing just fine. Dad checks in whenever he can, and his best friend, Euan, is next door if we need anything.
Euan. I go weak at the knees just thinking about him. If only he’d been my drama teacher when I was in secondary school. His son, Peter, is the same age as Elliott. They’re best friends, and because I’m an awesome guy, I’ve been picking Peter up after school so he and Elliott can hang out until Euan gets home from work. Getting to drool—I mean see —Euan five evenings a week has nothing to do with it. Nothing at all.
The shrill bell rings. The teacher opens year six’s cloakroom door, and the kids rush out. Now they’re in year six, the teacher doesn’t wait until they’ve spotted a child’s parent or guardian to let them go. At least half of the kids in Elliott and Peter’s class walk home alone now.
Elliott and Peter slam into me in their enthusiasm to hug me. Elliott waves a letter.
“Woah, slow down there.” I pat them on the back.
“Bake sale. You’ll make cupcakes, won’t you?” Elliott asks.
“Cupcakes?”
“Yeah. Everyone’s parents are being asked to make cakes.”
“Or buy them,” Peter says.
Elliott rolls his eyes. “That’s cheating. Besides, you can bake cupcakes, can’t you, Cam?”
“Uh—” I stare at him, wide-eyed.
Elliott nudges Peter in the ribs with his elbow.
“Dad could help. You could team up and bake them together,” Peter says.
Now, there’s an idea.
“Won’t your dad be too busy?”
“Nah, he’s got a teacher training day on Monday.”
”Won’t he have to?—?”
“—Work? Nah. It’s disaggre-something,” Peter says.
I raise my eyebrows. “Disaggregated?”
“That’s it. They do three evening sessions and get to take a day off.”
“But we’ll be at school. So we won’t get in your way.” Elliott gives me a butter-wouldn’t-melt smile.
A whole day baking cupcakes with Euan. Sounds fun. Not that making it happen is as simple as they’re making out.
“I have clients on Monday.” I’m a mobile hairdresser. I love it, and I get to work whatever hours I want, which has been perfect for picking the boys up from school.
“Cancel them,” Elliott says.
I laugh. “Just like that?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you want to bake cupcakes with my dad?” Peter asks.
Yes, yes, I do.
We wander out of the school gates and turn up the hill towards home. It’s about a twenty-minute walk. I pick them up in the car when the weather is bad, but today is what Dad would call T-shirt weather.
“The real question is, why are you two so keen for me to bake cupcakes with your dad?”
They glance at each other.
“We think you’d make a good team,” Elliott says.
“One of you has to know how to make cupcakes,” Peter says.
“Or you could learn together.” Elliott grins.
“Uh-huh. Why do I get the feeling there’s more to it?”
They turn on their most innocent expressions, which makes me even more suspicious.
“Well, assuming I can shuffle my clients around, I’m happy to help your dad make cupcakes. Also assuming he wants my help.”
“Leave that to us.”
“Riiiight… What are you two up to?”
“Nothing,” they say in unison.
Suspicious.
“We’ll ask him when he picks me up,” Peter says.
“Wait. When do you need the cupcakes by?”
Elliott shoves the letter into my hand, crumpling it in the process. “Tuesday.”
“Handy. I assume we’re also expected to buy cupcakes at the bake sale?”
“Of course.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course. It would be faster to buy cupcakes from the supermarket.” And there would be less risk of me giving anyone food poisoning. I’m not a bad cook, but baking is a whole different ball game.
“That’s cheating,” Elliott says.
“Everyone will know if you bought them,” Peter says.
“How?”
“It’s obvious.”
“How?”
“The shop-bought ones always look—” He clamps his jaw shut.
“Better?” I offer.
“No. I wasn’t going to say that.”
“I bet you weren’t.”
“Samey,” Elliott says.
“Machine made,” Peter says.
“Nice save there, boys. How was school?” It’s time to change the subject.
“Okay,” they reply.
“What did you do?”
“Don’t remember,” Elliott says.
“Peter?”
He shrugs. “Don’t remember either.”
“Did you do maths?”
“We do maths every day.”
“English?”
“Every day,” Elliott says in a bored tone.
“Hey, English is a great subject.”
He feigns an over-the-top yawn. “If you say so.”
“It is! It was always my favourite subject at school.” I enjoyed writing stories the most.
“I bet you liked maths too,” Peter says.
“Maths was?—”
“Boring?”
“I was going to say okay .”
“But not great?”
“No. Not great.”
“What about break and lunchtime?”
Elliott’s eyes light up. “We played football at lunchtime.”
“I scored a goal!” Peter runs ahead, pretending to dribble a ball and kicking it into a goal. He thrusts his hands into the air in victory.
Elliott dashes after him and gives him a congratulatory hug. “It was an epic goal!”
I laugh. “Did you score any goals?”
Elliott releases Peter and holds up two spread fingers, his palm facing me. “Two and I kicked the ball so hard it went straight over the fence.”
I wince. “Oops.”
“One of the dinner staff had to go and fetch it for us.”
“She didn’t mind,” Peter says.
“Uh-huh. How is it you can remember every minute detail of break times but forget all the work you do?”
Elliott shrugs. “Break times are fun.”
They chatter amongst themselves until we get home. They sprint down the short path to our red front door. Elliott has a key, so he opens the door, letting us in.
They chuck their bags on the floor, shed shoes and jumpers, and head for the stairs.
“Homework first,” I call.
Elliott pauses halfway up the stairs, turns, and gives me a pleading look. “Aww, can’t we have a break first?”
“Fine. Half an hour and then homework.”
He crosses his heart, and they run up the stairs and out of sight. His door slams shut. Which game will they end up playing? I set a timer on my phone for thirty minutes. And then change it to forty-five so I can claim to be the cool big brother who doesn’t stick rigidly to times like an army general.
After tidying up their bags, shoes, and jumpers, I wander into the kitchen and browse Dad’s cooking books. He has books with one-pan meals from around the world, air fryer recipes, healthy slow cooker recipes, and meals for fussy kids, but no baking books. None. Zip. Nada. I guess Dad is as enamoured with baking as I am.
Thinking about it, all our birthday cakes were shop-bought, except on special years—one, ten, sixteen, eighteen, and twenty-one—when he paid someone to bake something special. Not that I can remember my first birthday cake, but I do recall Elliott’s. It was a tall, blue cake with sugar craft zoo animals on and around it. Dad took us to the zoo. Elliott loved the penguins the most and was frightened of the lions when they roared.
Elliott’s tenth birthday cake was decorated to look like it was out of a comic book. The way it was iced made it look two-dimensional. He adored it.
For my twenty-first birthday, Dad had a Pride cake made for me. Not that you could tell at first glance. The top was covered in plain white icing with gold numbers and sprinkles, but when I cut into it, I discovered every layer was one of the colours in the Pride flag, in order. Yeah, that cake was special and made me feel accepted.
I look up a cupcake recipe on my phone and rummage around for everything we’ll need. I come up short. Funnily enough, the house that never bakes does not have cupcake cases, a cupcake tray, or a cooling rack. Nor do we have vanilla essence, icing sugar, food colouring, or caster sugar. We do have eggs, milk, and flour. I always have that combination of ingredients for making cheese sauce. It’s my speciality, which is useful, as lasagne is one of Euan’s favourite foods. I should make it for dinner tonight. Will he have any of the cupcake things I’m missing? Not that he’s agreed to bake them with me. Will he? I cross my fingers and toes.
I make a list of the things I’m missing. I’ll show it to Euan after whirlwinds Peter and Elliott have convinced him to bake cupcakes and, more importantly, to bake them with me on his day off. Knowing my brother and his best friend, they will convince him. Look how easy it was for them to twist my arm behind my back. They’re a dangerous tag team. So dangerous I’m positive they’ll convince Euan to spend his day off baking cupcakes.
I find my appointment book and call Monday’s clients. Whatever happens, I will be baking cupcakes. What remains to be seen is whether I’ll be flying solo—or crashing and burning solo, more like—or if I’ll have the help and company of the sexiest drama teacher in England.