Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“I think the patron saint of baking calls that Karma.”
It’s my turn to chuckle. “On one hand, I was pissed he was taking credit for my work-”
“Rightfully so.”
“But on the other,” Slater switches to the remaining pan that needs to be lined at the same time I finish up mine, “I was flattered that they had somehow managed to make him more popular. That they had been bringing joy to his life. And I loved the notion that I was making people’s day a little brighter…a little more…colorful…like my own.”
He pauses his actions to meet my stare again.
“Eventually, he started making requests-”
“Ballsy.”
“Yeah, but he’d tell me all about her – whoever her was that week – and why he liked her and why he wanted to impress her and how she was the reason for him getting out of bed in the morning. It was romantic and melodramatic and funny enough, how me and him grew closer. He trusted me not to harp on him for getting all in his feelings over a girl and he gave me all sorts of dating advice I later – much later – put to use.” Turning to rest my hip on the counter while Slater completes his task is mindlessly done. “I kind of think that’s why he wants them served at his engagement shower. Like a subtle nod to that time in our lives.”
“I get the feelin’ you’re givin’ him credit where credit isn’t due again,” my best friend good naturedly jokes.
This time it’s me who tips my head back in laughter.
Freely giggles and grins like it’s the only thing I have to do in the world.
“Huh.” Slater grunts, tosses the unused liners to the side, and angles himself to face me. “Is that why you have that cupcake tattoo behind your ear?”
An enthusiastic nod instantly occurs.
“And is it by your ear because of all the listenin’ to your brother?”
Another nod is delivered at the same speed.
“Huh,” the man beside me thoughtfully hums, “that’s uh…that’s wild.”
“What?”
“That after all these years, there’s still so much to learn about you. For instance, I know you like tatts because you find the buzz of the gun calmin’, but I didn’t realize that every design on you tells its own tale.”
“I know what you mean.” My beam lingers. Keeps the situation bright. “I’m still learning about you too, Cowboy.”
“How good I am with my tongue between your legs doesn’t really count.”
There’s no stopping the squeak of shock his comment conjures.
“I was tryin’ to be serious here, Angel Cake,” Slater states in an overdramatic fashion, blue lettering giving away the same thing his grin is. “I was tryin’ to have a real Hallmark moment with ya.”
“Hallmark this,” I sassily state and snatch up the nearby dishtowel to whip against the side of his leg.
The challenging expression I’m instantaneously met by after the fabric makes contact with his jeans doesn’t surprise me. “You really wanna do this?” He cockily tilts his head to the side. “Did you learn nothing during the Siege of Pillowsburg?”
More laughter escapes during my retreating steps. “Bring it on, Cowboy.”
One last skeptical look is all the warning I’m given before he advances. Knowing that speed and agility are both on his side is what leads me to taking other measures of defense such as tossing the freshly washed raspberries in his direction. Slater easily ducks and dodges, barely being slowed down at all as we work our way round and round and round the island. He eventually manages to catch the end of the towel I’m swinging around yet instead of playing tug-a-war with it, I do the unexpected.
I let go.
Grab my perfectly measured cup of cake flour.
Show him the impish gleam in my gaze and then throw the contents at him.
“Sonofabitch!” comes out in a chuckling nature informing he’s amused, not mad.
However, rather than using the opportunity to put more distance between us, I do something unwise.
I gloat.
Hard.
I do a little dance of victory timed to the country music swirling around the kitchen only to have him chuck a handful of the ingredient at my chest. “Sonofabitch!”
“Ha!” Slater mirthfully barks. “How do you like-”
Whip cream lands smack dab in the middle of his face prompting me to toss my spoon free hand up in victory. “Bullseye!”
Slowly – almost terrifyingly slow – my fake boyfriend turned kitchen enemy wipes away the contents off his nose and onto his tongue. The hum that reverberates around the room is attached to a pleased expression. “Sometimes I forget how much better your homemade shit tastes than that shit out of the tub.” He doesn’t leave a chance for me to comment. “Doubt I’ll ever forget again after I lick it off of you.”
Letting my jaw fall to my feet leaves me vulnerable for the attack like he’s counting on.