Page 32 of Delicious (Delicious #1)

Chapter Three

Cameron

B efore Dad went to Hong Kong, he and Euan would take turns driving the boys to the school’s breakfast club every school morning. Now that I’m in charge, Peter comes to ours for breakfast, and I walk them to school in time for registration.

At least, that’s the usual plan.

This morning is different.

Euan and I walked the boys to school together.

We’re standing in the playground while Elliott and Peter dash around, running off excess energy before school starts.

“I got everything we need for cupcakes,” I say. “At least, I hope I did.”

“Supermarket-bought is the backup plan if baking goes wrong, right?” Euan asks.

I laugh. “Absolutely. But hey, how hard can it be to make cupcakes?”

His expression twists into something caught between horror and ‘you’d be surprised’.

It makes me laugh harder. I put my hand on my aching side. “At least we’ll be able to say we tried.”

The bell rings, and all the children rush to their lines.

“You can go now,” Elliott says as he runs past us.

“Yeah, go and bake cakes, Dad,” Peter says.

Euan arches an eyebrow. “I think we’ve been given our marching orders.”

“Definitely.”

Their class teacher arrives and walks down the line, saying hello to every child and asking them how their weekend was. I nudge Euan, and we slip away, ambling up the hill towards home.

“Decorating will be the hardest part,” Euan says.

“You reckon?”

“Yes. I have no idea how you make those fancy swirls. Do you think we can just dollop the icing on with a spoon?”

“I watched a YouTube video. You need a piping bag and fancy tips. I picked some up when I got everything up. It looks pretty easy.”

“In my experience, things that look easy when experts do them rarely are.”

I snigger. “Sounds like you have experience with that.”

His face turns beet red. What did I say?

“And it sounds like you had to spend a lot of money so we can make two dozen cupcakes.”

“Eh, a bit. It’s fine.”

“Tell me how much, and I’ll give you half.”

I shake my head and wave my hand. “It’s fine. A lot of it is stuff I’ll be able to use again next time.”

“Next time? You’re optimistic that this is going to go well.”

I shrug. “Maybe it will, maybe it won’t. Either way, it’ll be fun.” I grin.

At least, I hope baking cupcakes with Euan will be fun. It’ll be the most time I’ve spent with him alone. It’ll be the only time I’ve spent alone with him. Deep breaths. Don’t get too excited. We’re making cupcakes. Nothing else.

Euan’s house is a mirror image of Dad’s, although the decor is more traditional and less modern. The kitchen has lots of warm shades from the wooden cabinet doors to the walls and floor tiles. Like Dad’s kitchen, it has a breakfast bar dividing the kitchen and dining spaces. After collecting everything we need from Dad’s, I arrange the ingredients and equipment on Euan’s breakfast bar. He opens the recipe book he mentioned and pops it on a green plastic stand that folds shut like a book. We stand, shoulder to shoulder, reading the recipe. Being close to him makes my heart beat faster. Act cool, Cam. Don’t let on that you think he’s the most gorgeous man alive.

He has thick, dark brown hair, swept to the right like he’s stepped out of a romantic forties movie. He has a widow’s peak, and although his hair doesn’t have a trace of grey, his hairline is receding a little at the temples. His grey-blue eyes fit his kind face perfectly. He has laughter lines around his eyes and a short beard, which is barely longer than stubble. He’s wearing a blue-and-white-checked shirt with a grey scarf tied around his neck, making him look like a quintessential drama teacher. He’s a couple of inches shorter than me, with a perfect dad bod I’ve fantasised about hugging, even though I shouldn’t. Why would he even look at me in the way I look at him? I’m ten years younger than him. He’s my dad’s best friend.

“Do you have a food processor?” I ask.

“No. Do you?”

“Nope. I guess we’re doing it all by hand.” I chuckle. “It says here you should get your child to put the cupcake cases in the cupcake tray while you turn the oven on.”

“I’m short a child helper right now.”

I grab the box of cupcake cases. “Looks like I’ll have to be the stand-in.” Ugh. What a stupid thing to say. He’ll never see me as the adult I am if I act all goofy.

And yet he watches me as I place two dozen rainbow cupcake cases across two trays.

“The oven?” I prompt.

“Oh, right, yes.” He checks the recipe book and turns the oven on to heat up. “Now what?”

“Now we measure everything out.”

We gather a collection of plates and bowls and carefully measure all the wet and dry ingredients, quickly covering the breakfast bar in supplies. Euan finds a large mixing bowl from the back of one of the cupboards, washes and dries it, and puts it on the countertop with a satisfying thud.

“Hopefully, this won’t take too long. I know you have lots of marking to do,” I say.

“Lots might have been an exaggeration.”

“To get out of making cupcakes?”

He clears his throat. “Maybe.”

I laugh. “Why, Euan, that’s devious. I like it.”

“Don’t tell Peter.”

I pretend to zip my lips shut. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“Wait. We need to double the recipe.”

“Oh, shit, yeah. Thanks for remembering.”

“Teamwork.”

His smile is so contagious I grin from ear to ear.

Another round of weighing and measuring commences until, finally, we’re ready to start mixing. I put the butter and sugar in the mixing bowl and, using a fork, attempt to mash them together.

I frown. “Maybe we should have warmed the butter up somehow first?”

Euan glances at the microwave.

“I think it’s too late now we’ve added the sugar.”

“True, it will probably caramelise. Want me to take over?”

“I’m good for a few.”

I mash the butter and sugar until my hand and arm get tired and then hand the bowl and fork to Euan. I lean against the breakfast bar as he takes a turn. The butter is a lot more malleable now. Euan’s concentration face is perfect. He wrinkles his nose and pinches his lips together. I could kiss him. I won’t, obviously, but I want to.

Euan catches my eye. “What are you thinking?”

Heat flushes into my cheeks. “Oh, nothing.”

He smiles. “It wasn’t nothing.”

I can’t tell him what I was thinking. Think, Cameron, think. “I was thinking you’ve got a much better hand technique than me.” What was that?

It’s his turn to blush. “I don’t know about that,” he stammers.

Now I’m thinking about whether he does have a good hand technique. I bet he does. Now I’m imagining him in the shower, rubbing one out. My pulse increases. Blood thunders in my ears, racing towards—oh no. Think unsexy thoughts. Quick.

“Do you think this is ready?” Euan shows me the contents of the bowl.

I check the recipe book. “It says the mixture needs to be light and creamy.”

Euan carries on mixing the butter and sugar, whipping it until it’s light and creamy. I shouldn’t watch the movement of his hand and wrist intently, but I do. I shouldn’t let my imagination run riot, but I do. At this rate, I’m going to have to stand on the other side of the breakfast bar so he can’t see my groin. I’m staving off a hard-on by keeping my breathing slow, even, and calm. How long will that work for? Being alone with Euan was a bad idea. I cannot keep my crush in check around him.

“What next?” he asks.

I’m captivated by the movement of his lips and the crinkles around his eyes as he smiles.

“Cameron?”

“Huh? What?”

“What do we do next?”

“Oh, right.” I shake myself and turn my attention to the recipe book. He could easily have read the next instruction, but I guess he wants to keep me involved in the process, which is super sweet. He’s amazing. “We need to beat”—my voice catches. I’m suddenly hot and sweaty. I clear my throat. “We need to beat the eggs in one at a time.”

“Do you want to do that?”

Do I want to beat—? He’s talking about eggs. Beat the eggs into the mix. One at a time. Not beat him off. Although yes, please, in a heartbeat. Ask me to beat you off, Euan. Please?

“Sure.” I take the bowl, crack one egg into it, pick out a couple of stray pieces of shell, and beat everything together into a less-appealing gooey mess.

I get hotter as I realise Euan is watching me while I work. He helps by cracking the second egg into the bowl.

“You’re good at that,” I whisper.

“Huh?”

“You didn’t get any of the shell in the bowl.”

“Oh. It’s a talent.”

“I bet you have lots of talents.” Shut up, Cameron. My voice sounds weird. Lower than normal. A little husky. Bit by bit, my body and mind are betraying the crush I’ve kept hidden for years. I’ve dreamt about being with him. About kissing him. Heck, I’ve even fantasised about being the one he comes home to. But here? Now? All I want is him .

He smiles and looks away. He uses his finger to read the next part of the recipe. Am I making him feel uncomfortable? That’s the last thing I want.

“We need to sift the flour in next.” His voice is a little odd too. Stilted.

“You sift, and I’ll stir?”

“Sure.”

He sifts the flour through a sieve slowly while I keep stirring the mixture. Gradually, it looks more appealing again. Not that I have a clue what cake batter is supposed to look like or what the recipe book means by a ‘soft dropping consistency’. I lift the spoon. The gloopy mix drops off the spoon and plops into the bowl. I puff my cheeks out.

“We’re supposed to add a bit of milk and the vanilla essence,” Euan says.

“Go ahead.”

He adds a teaspoon of vanilla essence and slowly pours some milk in while I stir. Every so often, I lift the spoon. He stops adding milk when the batter drips off the spoon in thick splodges. And now all I can think about is something else thick, sticky, and dripping. I shiver and lick my lips.

“It does look good,” Euan says.

His voice brings me back to the moment. “Oh, yeah, it does. Teamwork.” I raise my hand in a high five.

He hesitates, then strikes my palm with his own. “Hopefully, they’ll look even better once they’re baked.”

Between us, we spoon the mixture into the cupcakes. It’s a messy job. We manage to splatter cake mix on the baking trays and ourselves. I want to lick the batter off his fingers and then suck them into my mouth. Oh, fuck, I need a cold shower. I adjust my jeans as surreptitiously as I can.

Euan puts the trays into the oven and sets a timer for fifteen minutes. He smiles. “I guess we’ve got some time spare now. What do you want to do?”