Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 145731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
He takes charge, measuring sugar for the peanut butter blossoms first. He moves fast, precise, like this is just another day running his imaginary future bakery, while I reach for the peanut butter.
“So how exactly does this thing work?” Corbin asks as he pours a scoop into a glass mixing bowl.
Tyler snorts. “I thought you knew how to bake. You’ve been bragging about it all day.”
“I mean the cookie swap, you ass.” Corbin rolls his eyes, then turns to me. “You wouldn’t say much about it. Mostly just mumbled and dodged. It’s a contest, right? You said you wanted to win?”
Well, I might need to clear that up. I grab a measuring cup for the peanut butter, and a spoon. “Actually, you said it. I just didn’t deny it.”
“Asshole,” he mutters.
“But really, everything’s a contest,” Tyler points out.
“True. True,” I acknowledge.
“So, what is it then? This cookie swap?” Corbin presses.
I tighten my grip on the measuring cup, scraping peanut butter off the spoon like it requires all my focus. The words stick in my throat for a second, like I have to force myself to say them.
But why? Why the fuck am I struggling?
I half want to tell them the truth—that I don’t want to go on dates this holiday season, that I don’t want to pretend I’m looking for love. December twenty-fifth will always be the day the mother of my child erected a headstone for my heart in the graveyard of romance. I’d rather skip this day on the calendar. Sleep through it. Ignore it entirely. But honestly, my friends know most of that. They know my feelings too well. That’s why they’re here, showing up and helping out. Because they want me to move the fuck on from that kind of heartbreak.
So I’d better not grumble. Even if I don't want to swap cookies at the event with any of the women…except Isla.
Wait. What the hell? Is that why I’m struggling to tell my friends the details of the cookie swap? Because I want something else entirely from it?
Like…more flirting with Isla Marlowe. I picture offering her a peanut butter blossom cookie. Watching her dip it in hot cocoa with a satisfied smile while telling me she predicted I’d make that cookie, then whipping out her goddamn color-coded planner and triumphantly showing me the list she made the night before—Three Things Rowan Bishop Will Do at the Cookie Swap.
The corner of my lips twitches, but I do my best to fight off a grin at the image. I’d taunt her right back, daring her to take a bite, then watching her lips as she savored it.
It’s not an awful image at all.
But I’ve got to snap myself out of this stupid daydream. I need to stop overthinking my crush on her. Just get through it and make it to the other side.
I clear my throat, about to explain the cookie swap when a loud rap on the door echoes through my home. I’m not expecting anyone, but maybe it’s a delivery? Could be more books for Mia. Grabbing my phone, I swipe open the camera app, then toss my head back and laugh. “Who invited Marlowe?”
Corbin flashes a guilty as charged grin. “Me. I need better pics of us baking,” he says. “Action shots are better than posed ones.”
I roll my eyes. “So you called our agent?”
Tyler snorts. “Double dipper,” he says to Corbin.
“I’ll say,” I second.
Corbin frowns dramatically. “Aww, does it hurt your feelings that I’m getting pics and helping your sorry ass bake?”
“Honestly, it does,” I say, but I don’t quite mean it. Fact is, Corbin’s got a good head for business. Dude is sharp and strategic. Pics of him and his “sports-ball buds” baking would probably help sell his future bakery. “And I want a cut of sales when you plaster our photos on the walls of All This and I Can Bake someday. Hey, I just named your future bakery. Double my percentage.”
“Done,” Corbin says. “And just in case math isn’t your strong suit, zero doubled is still nothing.”
After I flip him the flour-covered bird, I wipe my hands on the apron and head to the door. “If it isn’t the resident photographer,” I say as I swing it open.
“And jack-of-all-trades, evidently.” Jason comes inside, toeing off his shoes.
“An agent’s job is never done.”
Jason heads into the kitchen with me, and as the three of us get to work, he snaps pics of us baking and mixing. When Jason lowers the phone a little, he eyes the cookie trays. “This a cookie date or something for Rowan? Corbin just texted to say I needed to take pics of all you guys baking. But I didn’t get any more intel.”
“Yeah, Bishop. Fess up,” Corbin tells me. “You’ve been keeping your deep, dark cookie swap details from us.”