Page 24 of The Dating Ban (Mind the Corbin Brothers #1)

Austrian Baking Logic

Theo

T he coffee house is buzzing, the warm scent of freshly brewed espresso mingling with the sweetness of pastries. It’s the kind of mid-morning rush that keeps my hands moving without thinking—pulling shots, steaming milk, placing orders on trays with automatic ease.

Then the door slams open.

Ivy storms in like a woman on a mission, her T-shirt slightly askew, flour smudged across her cheek, and something suspiciously brown smeared down the front of her top. It looks…questionable.

At the far end of the counter, Jasper—who’s been lazily scrolling on his phone, sipping a melange like he owns the place (which, technically, he partly does)—snorts so loudly that a few customers glance over.

I look at Ivy, torn between amusement and something much more dangerous, much more instinctive.

She looks cute.

Flustered, messy, lickable .

I shove that last thought somewhere deep and unspeakable as she stomps up to the counter, planting both hands firmly on the surface.

“I have failed,” she announces, chest rising and falling dramatically. “I am a failure.”

I set down the portafilter. “Elaborate.”

Her shoulders sag. “The cake. It’s a disaster. I tried. I really tried. But it turns out baking is some kind of black magic and I was clearly not born with the gift.”

Jasper snorts again, barely trying to hide his amusement. “Tell me you at least set something on fire?”

She scowls at him. “No, but I may have broken a whisk, curdled some butter, and created something that looks—and I cannot stress this enough—exactly like cat vomit.”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “Ivy—”

She grips the counter tighter, leaning forward. “I need you.”

I suck in sharply.

Her eyes go wide. “I mean—your skills. I need your skills, Theo. Your baking skills. Would you—” She takes a breath, exhales dramatically. “Would you please, please help me bake a cake?”

I let the moment stretch, just long enough for her to shift on her feet, before smirking. “Of course.”

Her face lights up in pure, unfiltered relief. “Really?”

I wipe my hands on a towel and nod. “Yeah. I’ll help. But I need to make sure Jasper can get Lucy later.” Like I would have ever said no to her.

Jasper waves a lazy hand. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll grab her. Just text me the details. ”

I glance back at Ivy, her hair slightly frizzy, the flour still streaked across her cheek. She’s looking at me like I’ve just agreed to perform life-saving surgery.

I chuckle, grabbing a cloth to wipe down the counter. “I’ll be up after the café closes.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Theo. Honestly, I could kiss you,” Ivy exhales.

The words hang there for a beat.

Her eyes widen slightly as if she’s only just registered what she’s said. A flush creeps up her neck, and she immediately backpedals, waving a hand. “Not that I… I just mean… you know what I mean.”

I do know what she means. But now the words “kiss you” are floating in my head like they belong there.

Before I can say anything, she spins on her heel. “Right! See you later!”

And then she’s gone, practically jogging out the door, leaving a trail of flour-dusted chaos in her wake.

I stare after her, rubbing the back of my neck, still hearing those words. Kiss you.

A long, drawn-out laugh breaks my daze.

I glance to the side. Jasper is watching me over the rim of his cup.

“So,” he smirks, setting the mug down. “When exactly were you planning on telling her that you can’t bake either?”

I turn back to the espresso machine. “I can bake.”

Jasper raises an eyebrow. “No, Klaus can bake. You can stand next to him and look like you know what you’re doing.”

I shoot him a look. “It’s cake, Jasper. How hard can it be? ”

Jasper lets out a laugh, shaking his head. “I think Ivy may have thought this too before she created cat vomit.”

I ignore him and pull out my phone, scrolling for Klaus’s number. Can’t be that difficult with a few tips from the expert.

I lean against the wall outside Ivy’s flat, a bag of hastily bought baking supplies hanging off my wrist. The scent of warm pavement and lingering espresso from the café below clings to my clothes, but my mind is on the cup cake.

Not cupcakes, mind you. Not the tiny, frosted things people stick candles into. No, this is some Austrian logic at work—a full-sized cake, measured out using a cup, which Klaus assured me was idiot-proof. His exact words.

Which is a little insulting, honestly. But also, reassuring.

I glance down at the bag: flour, sugar, eggs, yoghurt, nuts, cocoa powder, vanilla extract.

A bottle of milk that I may or may not have panic bought because I wasn’t sure if we’d need it.

Everything was sourced from the corner shop down the street, where the owner gave me a bemused once-over when I dumped it all on the counter.

Now, I’m just waiting for Ivy to buzz me up.

I shift my weight, tapping my fingers against the plastic bag. The “kiss you” comment from earlier is still floating somewhere in the back of my mind, refusing to settle. It was nothing—just a throwaway phrase, a flustered slip of the tongue.

But she blushed .

And now I’m here, standing outside her flat, about to bake a cake I’ve never heard of, with a woman who keeps wedging herself deeper into my thoughts, whether I like it or not.

I take a breath just as the buzzer sounds.

Here we go.

The door swings open, and Ivy stands there, hands on her hips, hair slightly damp like she’s just had a shower. She eyes the bag in my hand before her gaze flickers up to my face.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my knight in shining apron,” she says, stepping aside to let me in.

I smirk as I brush past her. “I left my apron downstairs. Thought I’d take my chances without it.”

She gestures dramatically towards the kitchen. “Welcome to my domain. Try not to be intimidated by my gnome army.”

I glance around. The counters are already dusted with flour, and there’s an unmistakable burnt smell hanging in the air.

Gnomes are no longer just on the coffee table, but the windowsill and on the floor in one corner of the room.

I guess those are the ones banished from the breakfast bar which is currently covered in baking tins and flour dust.

I lift an eyebrow. “You already attempted round two without me?”

She crosses her arms. “No, that’s round one. Or… what’s left of it.”

I lean over and peer at the cooling rack. What I assume was meant to be cake has collapsed into a dense, sunken mess. The top looks vaguely caramelised, but not in a good way .

I pick at the edge with my finger. “Did you try to cremate it for good measure?”

“Don’t mock the fallen,” she says solemnly. “It tried its best.”

I shake my head, setting the bag of ingredients down. “Right. Let’s do this properly.”

She watches as I pull out the recipe Klaus sent, her lips twitching. “So, what are we making?”

“A cup cake.”

Her brow furrows. “A cupcake?”

“No, a cup cake.”

She stares. “Theo. That is the same word.”

“Not in Austria, apparently. It’s a full-sized cake, but you measure everything with a cup.”

Her mouth opens, then closes. She points at me. “That is the dumbest baking logic I’ve ever heard.”

I shrug. “I don’t make the rules.”

She sighs, rolling up her sleeves. “Fine. But if this goes wrong, I’m blaming Austria.”

We start mixing, following the stupidly simple instructions Klaus gave me. Ivy takes over measuring the ingredients while I handle the actual mixing.

At first, it goes smoothly. Eggs, yoghurt, cocoa powder, oil and sugar—all mixed to a smooth, creamy liquid. Simple.

Then it doesn’t.

The batter turns out weirdly lumpy when we add the nuts and flour mix, and when we try to smooth it out, it somehow curdles. I don’t even know how that’s possible, but Ivy stands back, hands on her hips, surveying the damage.

“Well,” she says finally. “We made something. ”

I exhale, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I think we made a mistake.”

She grins. “Oh? So, Chef Theo isn’t actually an expert?”

I sigh, turning to her. “Fine. I admit it. I am not a baker.”

She gasps, clutching her chest in mock shock. “Say it again, I think my ears deceive me.”

I grab the ruined bowl of batter and dump it into the bin. “Let’s just try again.”

The second batch goes better—less lumpy, smooth, and looks more like something a human being might eat. We get it into the oven and set the timer, both leaning against the counter as the warmth of the oven fills the kitchen.

Ivy sighs, stretching her arms. “Well, we’re practically professionals now.”

I give her a wink. “Should we open a bakery?”

She waves a hand. “Too mainstream. We should do something niche. Only cakes that require cups as measurements.”

I snort. “The Cup Cake Café.”

She grins. “Exactly. Very exclusive.”

I grab a dishcloth, wiping down the counter. “Right, let’s clean this disaster zone.”

Ivy nods, picking up the bag of flour—just as a small puff of white dust bursts out of the top and settles on her shirt.

She freezes. I freeze.

Then I smirk. “You know, white really suits you.”

Her eyes narrow. “Don’t.”

I wipe my hands on the cloth. “Don’t what?”

“Whatever you’re thinking. Don’t.”

I grab the bag from her hands and tip it—just slightly. A tiny dusting of flour floats onto her arm .

Ivy giggles. “Two can play this game.”

She lunges for the bag, but I twist away, laughing. “Oh no, you started this.”

“I did not!” she shouts, but she’s already grabbing a handful of flour from the counter and—before I can dodge—smacks it right onto my chest.

I stare down at the white imprint on my shirt. Then at her.

Her eyes widen slightly.

“Oh, you are in trouble,” I warn with a chuckle.

She shrieks as I grab a handful and flick it at her, catching her hair. She retaliates immediately, and suddenly, there’s flour in the air, on the counters, in my hair, on her face—

We’re laughing too hard to care.

Somewhere between dodging a handful of flour and grabbing for the bag, my hand brushes against her waist, and for half a second, something shifts.

She freezes just slightly, her breath catching, her body warm beneath my touch.

And then she shoves an entire handful of flour straight into my face.

I cough, spluttering. “Right. That’s it.”

I grab her by the waist, lifting her clean off the floor as she howls with laughter, kicking her feet in protest.

“Theo, put me down! I’m too heavy!”

I tighten my hold, not letting her nonsense ruin the moment. “Absolute rubbish.”

She squirms. “I mean it, I—”

“Ivy,” I say firmly, adjusting my grip. “I could do this all day.”

Her struggling slows, her hands resting against my shoulders, fingers curling slightly into my shirt. There’s a moment—a beat—where her breathing evens out, and I realise just how close we are.

I lower her slowly, not because she’s too heavy, but because something about this—her—makes me want to linger. Her body presses against mine for a second too long before her feet finally touch the floor.

She is not much shorter than my six-foot-three frame, but this close she still has to tilt her head back.

And then she looks at me.

Really looks at me.

The laughter fades, leaving something quieter, something heavier between us.

Her gaze drops to my mouth.

My fingers are still resting at her waist. I could move them. I should move them. But I don’t.

She swallows, then—hesitantly, almost testing—lifts a hand and cups my cheek. Her thumb brushes against my skin, slow and warm, leaving behind a trail of something I can’t quite name.

We lean in.

Just slightly.

Just enough for her breath to warm my lips.

Just enough for my heart to stutter in my chest.

And then—

DING.

The oven timer blares through the moment like a cold slap.

Ivy jumps, her hand dropping from my face as if she's been burnt. I force myself to take a step back, to put space where there should have been space all along.

She clears her throat, turning sharply towards the oven. “ Right. Cake.”

“Yeah,” I say, raking a hand through my flour-dusted hair. “Cake.”

Neither of us moves.

Neither of us looks at each other.

The timer beeps again.

And still, neither of us moves.