Page 28

TWENTY-EIGHT

Clay

“Remember—turn the mixer on low ,” I tell Toby. “Or the flour will fly around the kitchen.”

“Got it,” he says, reaching for the switch.

“Now add the liquid a little at a time.” I hand him the Pyrex cup and stand back, hoping he’s not about to spill chocolate and butter everywhere. It’s getting late, and he’s probably tired.

But he’s careful. This is our third batch, and we’ve got our system down pat.

Meanwhile, Jethro is at the sink, giving me a heart attack every time I catch sight of him. He’s wearing low slung sweatpants and a Detroit Lions T-shirt so threadbare that it should be illegal. He’s washed every single mixing bowl we’ve sullied and hand-dried each measuring spoon between batches. That was always our routine—I cook, and he cleans up. So we’re basically repeating history right now.

And fuck, now I have a visual for the future I always wanted with him. It’s not very conducive to Operation Get Over Jethro.

That’s on me, right? I could have given Toby a few pointers and left him alone. But baking is hard, and he needed my help. That’s what I’m telling myself anyway. Because the alternative isn’t very mature—that I wanted this exact moment in my kitchen.

And, well, I wanted Jethro to get another glimpse of what he’s missing.

It’s not very mature of me. I’m supposed to coach Jethro as best I can, and avoid drama. And maybe after tonight I’ll remember how to do that.

At the moment, though, I’m kind of lost in the moment. There’s jazz playing on my speakers, and the room smells like chocolate. I find it hard to stop sneaking looks at his strong body standing right there in front of my sink.

“Don’t you think that’s mixed enough?” Toby says, snapping me out of my reverie.

“Right.” I shut off the mixer. “Easy does it. Last batch for the muffin tin.”

“Maybe you should do this one,” he says, handing the mixing bowl over to me. Then he folds his arms on the countertop and rests his head there, exhausted.

Jethro sets down his work and ruffles Toby’s hair. “Listen, bud, it’s past your bedtime. When you get the last batch in the oven, you’re heading home to go to sleep. I’ll take them out of the oven for you and finish cleaning up.”

He picks up his weary face. “I’m okay. I got it.”

Jethro shakes his head. “Nope. I’m calling it. Don’t forget that it’s me you’ll be snarling at in the morning when you don’t want to get out of bed.”

Toby smirks. “Fine, but let me get ’em into the oven.”

Luckily for all of us, that only takes a few more minutes and a dozen globs of cream cheese goo on my countertop. I slide the tray into the oven, and Toby sets the timer.

Then he allows Jethro to hustle him into his shoes and out the door. “I’ll be right back, Clay,” Jethro calls on his way out. “Let me clean that bowl.”

“Take your time!”

The door closes behind them, and I take a deep breath. Maybe we needed this—a low-stakes lesson on how to be in the same room for a couple hours together without bickering over the past.

I put the last mixing bowl in the sink and spray hot water into it. I gather up the unused baking cups and tuck them back into the package and finish setting the kitchen back to rights.

Before long, Jethro is back, tapping on the door. After I let him in, he marches into my kitchen like he owns the place and commences washing up that last bowl. “You weren’t supposed to clean up,” he grumbles. “The kid really trashes a kitchen.”

I take him in for a moment. The muscles in his forearms flex as he squirts dish soap onto the sponge.

“It wasn’t so bad.” Although now I have nothing to do while the muffins bake except breathe the same air with a man I used to love.

Maybe Jethro feels awkward, too, because once the bowl is clean and dry, he does a restless circuit of my living room, stopping to look at the family photos on the bookshelf and my lucky puck on its stand.

“What’s this?” he asks, lifting the puck and flipping it.

“My first NHL goal.”

“Against who?” He grins. “I need to know if it’s a goalie I respect.”

“Matti Korhonen.”

“Nice,” he says, setting it down again. He wanders onward, past the sofa. “Wait, what’s this?” He plucks something off my coffee table. It’s a curved thing, almost shaped like headphones, but not quite.

“That’s…” Shit . “That’s a neck massager. Kaitlyn gave it to me.”

“Huh.” He gives me a wry glance. “Do you look like a Star Trek character when you’re wearing it?”

“Possibly. I’m not going to demonstrate.” I cross the room and take it from him. The less said about neck massages, the better. It’s deeply embarrassing that I have an electric device to take the place of his hands on my body.

I shove it in a drawer and slam it shut as if he’d found my dildo.