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8
Cupcakes and Fake Fiancée
Oliver
I open the door to Theo’s apartment, wondering if maybe I should’ve begged Charlotte to reconsider my crazy proposal. The only reason I hadn’t while we were in the elevator was I didn’t like how foolish and desperate it would make me seem. The problem is, I am foolish and desperate. I was a fool in California, and now I’m paying for it. The really fucked-up part is that I’m not only jeopardizing my career with my foolish past, but it is also possible that it could come back to hurt Theo, who has only just cleaned up his womanizing reputation.
As I enter the apartment, the acrid scent of smoke fills my nose. I rush in, worried that the penthouse is on fire. I reach the kitchen and find Madeline looking down at something on the stove that was probably once a piece of meat but now looks like charred wood.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
She turns her head to look at me. “No.”
I see the frustration on her face, and the maybe-future-brother-in-law in me wants to help her.
“What are you trying to do?” It’s common knowledge that Madeline can’t cook. Theo often quips that it’s the only thing wrong with her, and he’s glad for it because it would be too hard to live with perfection.
“I was trying to make a pork loin.”
“Why?” I ask.
She huffs, picks up the pan, tosses it in the sink, and turns on the water. “Because I want to be able to cook for Theo.”
“Theo doesn’t want you to cook.”
She looks at me, and her lips start quivering a little bit. I worry she is about to cry. Oh shit.
“I know he doesn’t because I’m terrible at it.”
“That’s not the reason,” I say to her. “He doesn’t want you to cook because if you’re perfect, it’ll make him look bad.”
She shakes her head. “Thanks for trying, Oliver.”
“No, really. He told me that. He likes having something that he can do for you.” Theo is actually a pretty good cook.
She stands there for a minute and I hope she’s not going to cry. She lets out a long breath and steps to me, dropping her head on my chest. “Thank you, Oliver.”
“Any time, Madeline.” I pat her on the back and then look at the pan in the sink. In my mind, I think she’s probably hopeless in the kitchen, but I don’t say that. “You know Theo can’t bake.”
Her head jerks up to look at me. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, he can cook, but he’s not very good at baking. You know, things like cookies, cakes and pies. Maybe it’s a situation in which you can bake but can’t cook.”
Her eyes light up. “Do you think so?”
I shrug. “I don’t know, but it could be worth a try.”
“Do you know how to bake?”
I smile. “Actually, I do. I once dated a woman that owns a bakery.”
She smirks at me. “Dated or hooked up with?”
I act like her comment doesn’t bother me, but it does a little bit. It’s a reminder of why I’m having so much trouble here in New York. That and the threat of something worse being revealed.
“We saw each other for about three months. Long enough for me to learn how to make a killer cupcake.”
I rummage through Theo’s kitchen, pulling out everything needed to make a cupcake. Unfortunately, I can’t remember the exact measurements, so I go to my phone to look up cupcake recipes.
