Which is further proof Mason Kincaid is no good for me. Toe-curling is the gateway drug to feelings. And feelings lead topoor decisions. And poor decisions? They lead straight to ugly orthopedic shoes and emergency wine deliveries.
"Define 'appears homemade,'" Mason says beside me, his voice steady, professional. It's the same tone I imagine he uses when he dissects contracts, and its unshakable ease in the face of my internal five-alarm fire is both infuriating and, if I'm being honest, a little impressive. He's holding a package of gourmet chocolate chip cookies, examining the nutrition label like it contains a loophole he can exploit.
"Think less manufactured in a facility that also processes nuts and more made with love in someone's kitchen." I steer toward the frozen foods section, not to move the errand along, but to put inches of physical space between us. "The goal is plausible deniability. If someone asks if you created them yourself, you want to be able to say yes without lying."
I grab a frozen chocolate cake from the freezer section, the biting cold a welcome shock to my fingertips. I focus on the ingredients list, pretending to be fascinated by xanthan gum. Anything to avoid meeting his eyes.
"That seems ethically questionable."
"Welcome to small-town social survival, Counselor. Sometimes ethics are flexible when community harmony is at stake." I add frosting and a container of sprinkles to the cart with sharp, decisive movements. "Besides, you're not lying. You'll be involved in every step of the cookie and cake improvement technique."
He arches an eyebrow. "Improvement? This sounds less like baking and more like evidence tampering."
I push the cart toward the checkout line, seeking the safety of a crowd. "Don't give me that expression. This is River Bend tradition. Half the homemade dishes at any potluck started life in the frozen foods section."
"And the other half?"
"Are homemade by people like my mother, Gloria, who wields a Bundt pan as a weapon of superiority guaranteed to make you question all your life choices." I glance at him. "Which is why we're going for strategic mediocrity. Good enough to show effort, not so good that anyone expects gourmet contributions in the future."
Mason trails me through the checkout process, wearing the resigned expression of someone who's accidentally enrolled in a small-town crash course with no option to drop the class.
"Having a baking day, Maddy?" Brenda scans our items at a pace that says she's memorized every product code.
"Teaching Mason the fine art of potluck preparation," I reply. "He's new to River Bend hospitality."
"Oh, how lovely!" Brenda shifts her attention to Mason, her enthusiasm that of someone thrilled by fresh gossip. "You're the lawyer working in The Weathered Barn, aren't you? Mrs. Patterson mentioned you were professional."
"Professional is one word for it," I mutter, earning a pointed glance from Mason.
His public-facing persona clicks into place, smooth and charming. "It's nice to meet you," he tells Brenda. "I'm looking forward to more of River Bend's traditions."
Brenda practically melts. "Well, you've got the best tour guide in town, that's for sure," she says with a wink. "She gives off that spiky vibe, but she's got a heart of gold, that one."
I feel a hot blush creep up my neck. I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole. Mason's expression remains composed, but I see a flicker of amusement before he schools it. He's enjoying this. The traitor.
"Being neighborly," I say through gritted teeth, grabbing our bags. "Come on, Mason. We have desserts to enhance."
We escape to the parking lot. The air crackles with leftover awkwardness.
"Is everyone in this town a matchmaker?" he asks as we load the car.
"Only the ones who care about you," I reply, then instantly regret the implication. "I mean, who care about community integration. Not you specifically. Just people in general."
"Right. Community integration." His tone suggests he's not convinced, but he lets it slide. "So, what does this dessert enhancement process involve?"
"You'll see."
Twenty minutes later, we're back in The Weathered Barn, the small kitchenette transformed into a temporary culinary classroom. I've cleared the counter space, gathering the tools for Mason's introduction to Creative Presentation Techniques.
"First step," I announce, opening the cookie package with dramatic flair, "is transferring store-bought items to serving dishes in a way that suggests domestic competence." I demonstrate by overlapping cookies in an attractive pattern, leaving strategic gaps to hint at recent removal from a baking sheet, adding a light sprinkle of powdered sugar for authenticity.
Mason watches, his attention is razor-sharp.
"The goal is to make it look homemade. Not like you spent six months training under Martha Stewart, but like you own an apron and occasionally use your oven for actual baking. Commitment to the performance is everything."
"Performance," he repeats, voice flat. He watches me, gaze sharp and analytical, and I feel pinned in place. I reach for a bag of powdered sugar. A small tear splits along the side. As I lift it, a cloud of white powder bursts out, coating the cookies, the counter, and the front of Mason's impeccable trousers in a dusting fit for a miniature snowstorm.
I freeze. "Oh my god."
