“The baking competition runs all day," Clay continues. "Preliminaries in the morning, finals in the afternoon. I want you there, participating, drawing attention to us. I’ll send some of the club to watch you. Make sure people remember seeing you with me.” He pauses for a second, looking over at Colt. “With him.”
“Why baking? I can't bake for shit.”
“Then learn. Fast. Your grandmother bakes, doesn't she?”
“Viper bakes… for stress relief? Isn’t he a better choice than I am?”
Clay leans forward. “Viper has something else to do for me at the festival. And this isn't a request, Kieran. The club needs this.I need this.”
The weight of his words settles in my chest. Whatever he's planning, it's serious. And questioning Clay isn't something you do unless you want to lose your patch.
“Fine. But I'm gonna embarrass the fuck out of all of us.”
“Better embarrassed than imprisoned.” He stands.
The Coffee Heart buzzes with the morning rush. My brother Grayson’s at a corner table, coffee in hand. I’m not used to seeing him so cheerful, but since he got together with his girlfriend Shelby, he’s all smiles.
“You look like shit,” he says when I sit.
“Thanks. That’s flattering.”
“When’d you get back?”
“Earlier this morning.”
His brows lift. “And you’re already here? You usually crash twelve hours after a run.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“How come?”
“I’m thinking of entering the Fall Festival baking competition.”
Grayson chokes on his coffee. “You can’t bake.”
“I can learn.”
“In two days?”
“Gram’ll help.”
He stares at me, then grins. “You’re serious? This is the dumbest thing you’ve ever done.”
I shrug. “I need to get going.”
Gram’s house smells like lavender, laundry, and freshly baked bread. “Kieran!” She beams when I walk in. “Great timing. I need a taste tester.”
She shoves a piece of warm bread at me.
“Gram, I need to learn to bake. You know that there’s a special prize for the best pastries this year? For the Fall Festival?”
She pauses mid-slice. “Come again? Since when are you interested in baking, not just eating?”
I pause for a second. Gram’s greatest wish is for me to couple up like Grayson. “I need to impress a girl. I want to make cinnamon rolls.”
“I’ve got you, grandbaby!” She pulls out mixing bowls. “Pay close attention. Cinnamon rolls are easy to screw up for a first-timer.”
Six hours and three batches later, my first is trash, the second is edible, and the third is almost respectable.
