“Please let this be something good,” I mutter, shoving aside a stack of fabric swatches and darting toward the door.
When I swing it open, I’m hit with the sweet, familiar scent of vanilla and cinnamon—and there stands Aiden, my best friend, like a glorious, oversized relief package. Her hair’s in a messy ponytail, her face scrubbed clean of makeup, and she’s rocking an enormous sweatshirt that proudly reads:I’m the Fucking Maid of Honor, Y’all.
“Aiden,” I squeal, relief flooding me as I throw my arms around her.
“I missed you, you crazy lunatic. Now step aside and help me unload. I brought an entire bakery with me.”
Behind her, a teenage boy trudges up the steps, arms straining under two duffle bags so big they look like body bags. His shaggy dark hair flops into his eyes, his expression one of utter teenage misery.
“This is Tommy,” Aiden says, jerking her thumb toward him. “My apprentice-slash-problem child. Say hi, Tommy.”
Tommy grunts what might be a hi as he stomps past me into the house, the bags thudding against the floor like dead weight.
“You brought him?” I arch an eyebrow, wrestling a rolling suitcase through the door.
“It was the only way I could get time off,” she grumbles, rolling her eyes. “My boss figured if I’m going to ‘abandon my duties,’ I might as well make it educational for the next generation of bakers.” She says this last part in a tone so mocking I have to bite back a laugh. “So congratulations—I now have a teenage sidekick who doesn’t know the difference between confectioners’ sugar and table salt.”
Tommy shoots her a glare from where he’s slumped against the wall, earbuds already shoved in.
“Great,” I say with a grin. “Welcome to Birchwood Springs, Tommy. I hope you survive the weekend.”
“Same,” he mutters, barely looking up.
Aiden shakes her head with exasperation. “Ignore him. He’s like a stray puppy—grumpy now, but he’ll warm up eventually. And if he doesn’t, I’ll threaten to throw him in the mixer.”
Tommy pulls out one earbud long enough to glare at her. “You’re not funny.”
“She’s hilarious,” I say, looping my arm through Aiden’s and steering her toward the kitchen.
I watch the exchange with a mixture of amusement and affection. This is Aiden in her element—barking orders, teasing people mercilessly, and making the whole world feel just a little bit brighter.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” I say, looping an arm around her shoulders as we head toward the kitchen. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“Damn right I am,” she replies, bumping her hip against mine. “Now let me see this dream kitchen in person so I can start making magic happen.”
Aiden’s reaction to the kitchen is exactly what I expected. She steps inside, her mouth falling open as she spins in a slow circle, taking it all in—the sprawling marble island, the double ovens, the gleaming countertops, and the walk-in pantry that’s bigger than most apartments.
“Gale,” she breathes, pressing a hand to her chest like she’s swooning. “If you don’t treat this as a sanctuary, I will murder you and claim it for myself.”
I snort, tension easing. “Duly noted.”
“I’m not kidding. This kitchen is a masterpiece,” she continues, already unzipping one of her bags to reveal what looks like half a bakery’s worth of supplies—flour, sugar, piping bags, food coloring, and a rainbow of edible glitter. “It’s like it was designed just for me. I’m going to bake everything.”
“Good,” I say, leaning against the counter and watching her unpack with practiced efficiency. “Because this wedding cake has to be perfect. If I’m doing this whole ridiculous fake-marriage thing, the cake’s going to be the highlight.”
“Don’t worry,” Aiden says, snapping on a pair of gloves like she’s preparing for surgery. “I’ll make something so beautiful, people will cry when they see it.”
“Good tears, right?” I ask warily.
She shrugs, all mischief. “Depends on how I’m feeling.”
I narrow my eyes. “I’m serious. People have to love me, Aiden.”
Her smirk softens into something genuine. “They’ll adore you. And not just because they’ll have the best cake of their lives, but because you’re amazing.”
By late afternoon, the kitchen smells like heaven—vanilla, butter, and sugar swirling into a cloud of sweetness that should be bottled as perfume. Aiden is in full cake-boss mode, sleeves rolled up and brow furrowed with a kind of laser-sharp focus that would intimidate most mortals.
Tommy, meanwhile, has been demoted—sorry, promoted—to “egg-cracker” duty, a job Aiden insisted he couldn’t screw up. He’s at the far end of the island, cracking eggs like it’s the most soul-crushing task on earth, each crack punctuated by a theatrical sigh.
