“Didn’t have to. Anyway, I figured we could go do something.”
“Like together?”
“No, I thought I’d drop you off at Lidl and I’d head to the pub.” He rolls his eyes, and gives me a playful looking smile. “Yeah, together.”
I ignore his sarcastic reply. “What did you have in mind?”
??` ?? ?´?
BY THE TIMEwe pull up outside BLUEBIRDBAKERY, it’s raining. Well, sort of. It’s more of this misty stuff that isn’t quite rain and isn’t quite fog, yet it still manages to soak you straight through to the bone all the same.
Niall’s mother closes the bakery at seven on weekdays (those are just winter hours, he informed me happily, we go till eight the rest of the year), so he has to fish keys from his pocket and unlock the back door to let us in.
Despite the fact that we’re getting soaked, he holds the door open for me with a mocking bow. “After you, m’lady.”
I quickly rush inside, Niall following me. We’re in a back room that leads to the kitchen, and as soon as he gets the door shut he shakes out his hair like a wet dog.
“Ew! Niall!” I screech, shielding myself from the spray of water droplets.
He ignores my protests, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around my waist. He pulls me flush against his chest, damp shirt and all.
“Niall!” I shriek again, trying and failing to push him off of me.
“You’re already wet,” he says, kissing the top of my head. “And cold.”
“Because of you!”
“No,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at me. “I don't control the weather, Molly.”
“No, but you control how much you act like a wet Labrador.”
He laughs—not one of his usual snorts or chuckles, but a full-blown laugh that sends warmth bubbling up from my chest. He kisses the top of my head again, and I scrunch my nose. That's twice now that he's done it. One of those strange things no one but him does—that I'm sure no other seventeen year old boy in the world does—but I'm starting to realize that I don't hate it.
“Come on,” he says, releasing me to take my hand instead. “Let's get you warmed up.”
Once our wet hoodies are pulled off and draped up to dry in the coat room, and Niall’s turned on all the bright lights in the industrial kitchen, he rubs his hand together briskly and turns to me. “Right. What d’ya wanna make then?”
“You’re the professional,” I point out, hopping up to sit on the edge of one of the stainless-steel prep counters. “What’s the easiest thing we can do? Mom said I have to be home by ten.”
He seems to think for a moment, silently weighing options in his mind. He crosses the room, opens a narrow supply closet andpulls out two aprons—one a dark navy blue, and the other one bubblegum pink. He tosses the pink one right at my face. “Put that on, then. We’ll make brownies.”
I catch the apron before it can hit me, glancing down at the fabric. It’s covered in little cartoon cupcakes, with the wordskiss the bakerembroidered across the chest in a looping cursive font.
“Mmm, this is cute,” I tease, sliding off the counter to tie it on. “You wear this often?”
He’s pulling the blue one over his own head—his also patterned with cupcakes and readBaker’s Man. He waits till he’s got it tied on properly and grabs a metal mixing bowl from under the counter before retorting. “Shut up.”
I laugh, leaning back against the cool metal of the counter and watch him work. He moves around, pulling ingredients from the pantry shelves—flour, sugar, cocoa powder, eggs—and lining them up pristinely on the counter. He looks just as intensely focused right now as he usually does organizing a play on the pitch. When he’s got all the stuff out, he turns and catches me gazing at him fondly.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I shake my head. “Just—you really look like you know what you’re doing.”
He scoffs playfully. “Course I do. Been doing this since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. Now. You gonna help or just stand there looking pretty.”
“Well, I dunno... I’m doing pretty good at the standing thing...”
“Get your pretty ass over here and help,” he says, and I push off the counter with a laugh.
