“And we need to make sure we have enough pretzels—both kinds—so we don’t run out again,” I add. “I’m going to do some ordering tonight.”
I figure that helps take some things off her plate since she’s been doing so much. But when she gives a not-quite-full smile, I’ve got the sense something has disappointed her.
“About that. The pretzels you sent last week weren’t gluten-free.”
“What?” That makes no sense. I ordered them. I grab my phone to double-check the invoice.
“They were fine, don’t get me wrong. I was able to use them for the regular sweet and salties. But the grocery store in Cozy Valley didn’t have any gluten-free ones that afternoon. I went out in the evening to get the gluten-free kind, so I was able to make some for the next day’s batch.”
Shit. That’s a lot of work for her. And the app doesn’t lie—I’m staring at the order, and I did hit the button for the wrong kind. “Why didn’t you tell me last week?”
“You had a hockey game,” she says. “And it was fine. Bakeries run out of items. Plus, I got them myself, so it was fine.”
She’s not wrong, but still. I feel like a fuck-up. “I’m sorry, Mabel. Let me make it up to you.”
She laughs me off. “Corbin, it’s not a big deal. We’re all good.”
But this mistake doesn’t sit well with me. I want to do my part, even if I’m not at Afternoon Delight as much as she is. Or even ten percent as often. My brain lands on an idea. “Hey,” I say, before she can head down the steps toward her car.
“Yes?”
“Last year, around Christmastime, I was helping my friend Rowan bake cookies for a sort of matchmaking-meets-speed-dating event. My agent took some pics of all of us baking at Rowan’s house. Rowan, Tyler, and me. He joked that a pic of me and mysports-ball budsbaking would help sell my future bakery.” Even though I’ve opened a damn bakery with her, it still feels vulnerable as hell to admit how long I’ve wanted to do this.
“You’d better still have that.”
I’m glad she knows where I am going with this. “I’ll send it to you tonight. You want to post it?”
“Like, tomorrow. I will post it tomorrow. Got any other secret promo material you’re hiding?”
I hum like I’m considering the question even though I’m mostly stalling. “I’ll have to look.”
“You do that.”
“You know,” I say, thinking out loud. “We could host dating events with cookies. Maybe it’s a blind date with cookies. Or all sorts of baked goods. No one knows what they’ll be getting, just like?—”
“You never know what you’ll get when you go out on a date!”
“Exactly.”
“I can see it now. Cookies are better than apps,” she says.
For a moment, my chest burns as I think about Mabel having used dating apps. I should leave the topic alone, but the words rush out of my mouth. “Have you been on the apps?”
Worse. Is she on them now? Shit. Why have we not discussed this?
Maybe because you keep saying it’s a one-time thing every time you touch her.
But before I can spiral into a stew of my own stupidity, Mabel scoffs. Loudly and far too amused. Or is it annoyance in her voice? “Seriously? Are you really asking me that?”
“Yes. I am.”
She folds her arms across her chest. “Areyou?”
“On the apps?”
“Yes,” she bites out.
Is Mabel jealous? “Nope. Haven’t been in a long time.”
