Page 27

TWENTY-FIVE

lauren

While Tate was busy overanalyzing the chemistry of baking on our way to the kitchen, I had a better idea.

Why waste time with science when we could call in reinforcements?

So, in a moment of desperation, Tate and I text Jaz and Sloan for a crash course in last-minute baking tips.

At this point, winning is a long shot, but if anyone can offer us a miracle—or at least prevent us from poisoning my entire family—it’s those two.

Me

Emergency baking help needed! I signed Tate and me up for some kind of bake-off challenge for my Family Olympics, and I don’t even know how to turn on the oven at the lodge.

Sloan

Please tell me Tate’s wearing an apron.

Tate

Focus. We need actual tips and a recipe.

Jaz

My chocolate peanut butter cake is to die for. I’ll send the recipe.

Me

Last-minute advice?

Jaz

Step one: Don’t burn anything.

Sloan

Step two: If you do burn something, scrape off the top and pretend it was intentional.

Jaz

Step three: Butter. It solves everything.

Tate

That’s it? Butter and lies??

Jaz

Welcome to baking.

Me

Why do I feel like this is going to end in disaster?

Jaz

Don’t worry, make the cake look good and people will still eat it.

Tate

So basically, our best strategy is deception?

Sloan

Deception and butter. Lots of butter.

Tate

At what point does this become a health hazard?

Jaz

Just use your charm, Sheriff. That’s how Lauren gets you to do all this PR stuff, right?

Tate

You two are useless.

Jaz

Good luck, Sheriff. Don’t set anything on fire.

Sloan

Or do. It’d be great PR.

When we reach the kitchen, we find out we’re not only the last couple to arrive, but everyone has claimed the best aprons. I grab the last two left: matching pink floral, edged with ruffles.

Tate crosses his arms as he glares down at the ruffled apron like it’s a moral offense to humanity. “You’re making me wear that? ”

“It’ll be a good look on you,” I say, biting back a grin. “Although it painfully clashes with your Lord of the Rings socks.” I nod toward the black socks peeking out with a gold ring pattern.

“I look like I should be hosting a tea party for stuffed animals.” He slides it over his head, tugging at the frilly hem with a deadpan expression. “Or a rejected contestant from The Great British Bake-Off. ”

I snap a quick photo before he can stop me. “This is going on the team’s private chat.”

“You realize the second that photo hits the team chat, I’ll be forced to tell everyone about your little octopus impression in the ocean.”

My mouth falls open. “You wouldn’t dare.”

His lips curve up on one side. “Try me, Sunny.” Then he adjusts the apron with as much dignity as possible for a hockey player. “And just for the record, no more pictures of me in this visual assault of an apron. Or any apron, for that matter.”

Aunt Karen steps to the center of the group and, in her teacher’s voice, gives us the rules. “All ingredients are located on the center island. Everyone has to share, so don’t be greedy. You have two hours to make the most scrumptious dessert possible, and may the best couple win.”

Chaos erupts as Bart and Abby launch themselves at the ingredients like they’re on some baking reality show. Flour, sugar, and baking powder disappear into their arms in seconds.

Tate watches them with a frown. “Rules state that’s for everyone to share,” he calls after them as they scurry to their corner of the kitchen.

Bart shoots him a look over his shoulder. “I’ll let you have it when we’re done. If there’s any left.”

I lean against the counter. “What are we supposed to do now?”

“Is there another flour alternative here?” He scans the ingredients left, but none of them will replace the one ingredient we need. His gaze shifts to Abby as she carefully sifts flour into a bowl.

He turns to me with a calculated smile. “How about when they aren’t looking, I borrow the flour?”

“You mean… steal ?”

“I prefer reclaiming shared resources. Perfectly legal.”

The kitchen is a whirl of activity as couples measure, mix, and stir.

Bart and Abby are working on some kind of cupcake recipe—no surprise there—while Dad and Patty make a pineapple upside-down cake.

On the other side of us, Olivia and Jake whip up brownies.

Even the uncles have joined forces, baking a secret recipe they’re not revealing until the end.

I notice Bart passes the flour to Dad, but he’s adamant about keeping it on his side of the kitchen.

“I tried the nice-guy approach. Didn’t work,” Tate whispers. “Any other suggestions to distract them?”

I hold up the egg carton. “How about a little accident? You create a scene, I’ll snag the flour while they’re panicking.”

His face lights up. “Brilliant.”

Tate pulls out the last three eggs from the carton, cradling them in his hands, before he casually walks past Bart, intentionally bumping into him. Two eggs smash to the floor while another lands in their mixing bowl.

“What are you doing?” Bart glares down at the mess on the floor, next to his foot.

“Oh, man, sorry about that,” Tate says, putting on his sad dog expression. “Didn’t see you there.”

Abby spins around, shocked when she sees the egg in their bowl. “Bart, there’s eggshell in our cake mix!”

As soon as she starts fishing the pieces out, I move fast—snatching the flour from the counter.

“We can’t have any shells in our batter. We have to start over!” Abby says.

Bart glares at the egg splattered on his flip-flop. “And you got it on my foot.”

Tate shrugs. “Well, maybe it’ll distract from those hairy toes.”

Bart’s face turns bright red, and I clamp a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing.

Tate wipes up the mess while I quickly measure the flour before they notice it’s gone. When Tate returns, he’s trying to hold back a grin as he bumps my shoulder. “Good job, baking partner-in-crime. What do you want me to do next?”

“Stir the cake mix,” I say, scooting the bowl toward him. “I need to find some more eggs since you sacrificed ours in the flour heist.” He grabs the wooden spoon and starts stirring way too fast, sending a cloud of flour into the air, coating his shirt like fresh snow.

“Slow down!” I laugh. “You don’t need to wear the flour.”

He wipes his shirt with one hand, then rubs his forehead. “You know, if I had more time to practice, I could get into this baking thing. Less physical than hockey, and at the end, you get a treat. Seems like a solid deal to me.”

I glance over and notice flour dotting his forehead and glasses.

“Hold still,” I say, reaching toward him.

He stills as I slide the glasses from his face, my fingertips grazing his temples. In that moment, the air between us changes. Without the barrier of his lenses, his dark eyes seem to see straight through me.

I grab a clean rag and carefully wipe them off. For a beat, neither of us says anything. The kitchen hums around us with the clatter of mixing bowls and the scent of warm vanilla.

“You know,” Tate says quietly, “there aren’t any cameras around, and this isn’t about my PR, for once. It probably doesn’t matter if I’m dirty.”

I tilt my head. “Well, we can’t have you looking ridiculous in front of the judges.”

His lips twitch. “So this is a professional courtesy?”

“Absolutely.” I take a second look at him before I finish polishing the lenses.

“I know what you’re going to say,” he says, looking back at the bowl. “That you like me better without glasses. Every woman I date tells me I should wear contacts more.”

“Then clearly, you’ve been dating the wrong women,” I say. “You look good in glasses.”

He frowns slightly. “Really?”

I hold them up to the light, checking for any missed smudges. “You know what’s strange? Everyone always makes such a big deal about Superman, but honestly, I always thought Clark Kent was the more interesting one.”

Tate’s grin widens. “So what you’re saying is, I have potential?”

“I’m saying you should stop listening to women who tell you to get rid of something that suits you.”

He watches me carefully, like he’s turning that over in his head. “Well, if I can’t be Superman, does that mean you’re going to keep calling me Sheriff?”

I shrug. “Why not? Cops are hot too.”

“Good to know where I rank on your hotness scale,” he says with a laugh.

As I hold out his glasses for him, he lifts up his flour-covered hands. “Could you do the honors? I’m kind of a mess here.”

“Sure. Just hold still,” I say, sliding his glasses back on. Tate watches me the entire time, and I suddenly feel all warm inside, like bread baked fresh from the oven.

“Thanks.” Then he grins, showing off those dimples again. For a moment, I totally forget we’re supposed to be baking.

“Wait,” I say, blinking at the bowl. “Have we added the eggs yet?”

Tate frowns. “I don’t actually know.”

“Oh, my word, we cannot forget the actual baking part,” I say with a laugh. “We’re supposed to be making a prize-winning chocolate peanut butter cake.”

Tate leans in. “Well, pulling off that little flour heist with you? I already feel like we’ve won.

” Then he smirks again, before heading over to scrounge more eggs.

My stomach dips like I just got off a reckless merry-go-round ride at the playground.

I can’t remember when I’ve ever had this much fun baking.

When I competed in this baking competition with Bart, it was so stressful. He kept snapping at me for not knowing things. He didn’t understand that I’m a marketing professional who barely has time to cook dinner, let alone become a pastry chef during my free time.

But Tate? He’s just here, making this fun. And suddenly, I don’t mind being here either, even if we lose to Bart and Abby.

“Hey,” Tate says, returning with some eggs. “Wanna see my egg trick?”

“Tate, what are you doing?”

“I’m going to toss this egg in the air, spin around, and catch it behind my back.”

“I think that’s a bad idea,” I warn, eyeing the ceramic tile floor.