"Nothing,” I deadpan. “I ran out of there so fast I twisted my ankle and had to ice it for the rest of the night."
"Okay, but that was just onecrappyexperience," Taylor giggles, clearly amused by her own joke. Then she tilts her head, suddenly serious.
"Don’t you miss having sex?" She looks genuinely offended, like my lack of a sex life is somehow a personal betrayal.
"Who says I’m not having sex?" I counter. I’mnot, but she doesn’t need to know that. Well, I mean, it’s been two months, but none of this is her business. The less she knows, the less time she’ll spend annoying me about it. After growing up with m gambling-addict father and dating Nathan the Man-Child, I’ve officially reached a point where I think all men shouldstartin jail and prove their way out. And it’s not like I’m some prude, I’ve had plenty of sex—when I have time for it.
Which, lately? I don’t. Between working five days a week as a baker at the casino, running my small pastry business, bartending four nights a week,andtrying to open my own bakery, my schedule is packed.
If I could squeeze in a dick, believe me, I would. But right now, I’m too busy just trying to survive.
Taylor stares at me, unblinking.
I don’t think she believes me. It’s my turn to scoff. "My sex life is fine. I've just been swamped, that's all. I need this bakery to be a success."
Not that it really matters, because the sex I do have? Totally overrated. One to two stars, max. Honestly, I get myself into crazier positions shaving my legs than anything the men I've slept with have been willing to try. But it’s probably best not to say that out loud. "I'm just really focused on The Frosted Spoon right now and nothing else,” I say instead.
Taylor perks up, immediately changing gears. "Are you going to sell those giant crispy chocolate chip cookies you used to make me? Because then you'll be raking in millions." She spins around the kitchen, looking through my cabinets. "Please tell meyou have some of those somewhere hidden in your kitchen of delights!"
The way Taylor twirls around my tiny kitchen brings me back to a different time—back when Dad and I lived in that cramped apartment above the pawn shop, just behind the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino. Taylor would stay with us every weekend, but our father would be too busy holding court at every blackjack table up and down the boardwalk to spend time with us. So we were mostly left to our own devices.
For the first year, she cried nonstop every time she was dropped off, forced to spend time with me and a man she barely knew. But somewhere along the way, that changed. By the end of that first year, we could always be found spinning through that messy little kitchen, singing our favorite songs into batter-dipped wooden spoons, and baking the most delicious chocolate chip cookies.
Most days, those cookies were our breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
I smile at the memory as I drop some ground turkey into the pot. "Hey, do you remember the taco bandit summer?" I ask.
Taylor throws her head back, shrieking with laughter. "Oh my God, yes!"
The Taco Bandit summer.
It started at the end of sixth grade, when my class took a trip to the local library to sign up for a summer reading program. As a reward, they gave us free taco and drink coupons from Taco Bell. When Dad found out, he immediately had an idea. That weekend, he took me and Taylor back to the library. The moment we walked in, he scanned the place like he was planning the biggest bank heist, then quickly made his way to the back, slipping behind the bookcases. We followed, whispering, our footsteps silent against the carpet.
"Here’s what you’re gonna do," he told us, crouching low. The plan? We would distract the librarian by asking for help in the kids' section while he snuck behind the front desk.
We did exactly what he said.
Through the gaps in the bookshelves, I watched as my father ducked low, reached over, and grabbed four entire stacks of those Taco Bell reward coupons. For months after, we lived solely on tacos and Mountain Dew. Dad said it was just like winning the jackpot on a slot machine.
Taylor shakes her head, laughing. "You know, I don't think I've had a taco since then. Even the thought of tacos makes me want to vomit.”
I blink slowly.Wow, really?I still love tacos.
Andnow she just found the hidden bin of crispy chocolate chip cookies and has devoured a good amount of them. Along with some of the oatmeal raisin.Why am I still cooking this chili?
"These are delicious," she says, her blue eyes dancing with excitement. "You’re going to be rolling in money with the bakery. Then I can move in and live off you like a queen."
My stomach drops. The can of crushed tomatoesslips from my grasp mid-pour, sending a splatter of red sauce across my face, arms, and chest. "Dammit," I yelp, scooping the can out of the pot and tossing it into the sink. I turn to face her completely, my pulse spiking.
How serious is she?
Taylor pauses, mid-laugh, then huffs. "Oh, don't be so sensitive,” she says. “You know I’d help out at the bakery for my queen's share."
My stomach keeps twisting, but I force myself to stay calm.
"It’ll probably be a while before I start seeing any real profits," I begin, but there’s no point in finishing because she's not listening anymore. She's pouring another glass of wine,swaying into the living room as music suddenly blasts from her phone.
I sigh, cover the pot of chili, and lower the heat to a simmer. Every argument and complaint bubbling up inside me gets swallowed back down. She's had three or so glasses of wine already. She's not serious about staying here. She can't be.
