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“Oooh, did that bruise someone’s ego?” she teases then she pushes a bowl toward me. “Mush!”
“I’m sorry—what?” I look at the bowl of ingredients then her then back to the bowl.
“First, you need to wash your hands.” She points to the sink across the room. “Then mix everything together with your hands. Gloves are over there. I like to hand mix the smaller batches.”
“Got it,” I reply, moving to wash my hands. “If I mess this up, you won’t hold it against me, right?”
“Nah, I stress bake all the time, and it rarely makes it past my employees’ stomachs. I’ve had some epic fails on experiment days,” Piper confesses.
I dry my hands with a clean towel and set it on the island counter. “I love that you bake to de-stress. You really have a passion for what you do, don’t you?”
“I do. You know, a lot of the recipes I use come from my grandmother. She gave me a huge book of them before she passed away, and I’ve carried them with me since culinary school and now into my own bakery. That’s one reason why I don’t understand why my mother wants me to give up my career and get married,” she sighs.
“Maybe she’s just worried that you’ll be too consumed with work that you don’t have time for a family. In the end, it’s our loved ones that matter most. They’ll be the ones we build a life with, support us in the good and bad times, keep us warm on the cold nights,” I muse while putting on gloves. My grandfather is really getting to me.
“Wow. Mr. ‘I’m-Married-to-My-Career’ and ‘all-women-just-want-something-from-me.’ Those are some wise words,” she teases, batting her eyelashes mockingly.
I grab a pinch of flour and toss it at her from across the island.
“Did you just throw flour at me?” she asks, amusement twinkling in her eyes.
“Yes, I did. And what are you going to do about it?” I playfully challenge her.
“I’m going to match your flour,” she throws a handful at me, “and raise it by a few sprinkles.” She tosses them at me.
As the sprinkles land in my hair, I can’t help but laugh at this playful energy between us. She starts to grab another handful of flour when I quickly snatch the towel on the counter and wave it in the air.
“Okay, truce,” I chuckle; she puts the flour back onto the counter. I walk around the island to her and lean against the counter. “Piper, I’ll continue to pretend to be your boyfriend and help with your mom. I know you don’t want to lie, but I am your wedding date, so it won’t exactly be a lie.”
“You’re still willing to do that? Did you hear what I said about my mother?” She looks surprised.
“Of course. I have a feeling I’ll have your mother eating out of the palm of my hand in no time,” I joke as she tosses more sprinkles at me. “Hey! What was that for?”
“Your overconfidence and just because those dimples of yours annoy me,” she says as we both laugh. I reach for my bowl and bring it closer so we’re now working side by side.
“Here goes nothing,” I mutter to myself. “I hope these turn out somewhat edible by the end,” I say as I start mushing as I was ordered to do.
Piper’s hands move with practiced ease, effortlessly combining the ingredients, a stark contrast to my clumsy attempts at following her lead. I can’t help but admire her confidence and skill in the kitchen. It’s clear that baking is not just a job for her; it’s a part of who she is. And as for me, well, baking isn’t my forte either, but I sure do love baking with Piper.
8
Piper
“You have to leave the dog,” I hear Caleb telling his grandfather in the back of the bakery.
I peek my head around the corner and find Gizmo stretched out between them. “I’m assuming you had a fun afternoon wearing my energy ball out?”
“We did,” Gene responds. “Also, I have to thank you. Nolan is doing a wonderful job. He has taken me around to many of my properties here and in the surrounding counties. He’s quite a go-getter and much more transparent than Dominic. So I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me anything. I’m just grateful to keep my bakery without threats hanging over my head. So, where are y’all having dinner tonight?”
“I thought we would go to the diner on Maple,” Gene says.
“I live right across the street, two doors down, in the little, yellow bungalow,” I tell him. “How about I cook for us tonight? Or better yet, you can both help, as Caleb,” my gaze turns to him as a warm smile spreads across my face, “has become quite the skilled baker during his time here. His expertise would be a wonderful contribution this evening.”
“Funny. My cookies were hockey pucks,” Caleb humorously remarks.
“And he returned with sprinkles in his hair,” Gene adds. “They were falling out as we were walking through town that night,” he says. “I think you may be exaggerating his baking skills.”
