“Yes, Mabel. Seriously,” he says, then offers the bag. “Also, I brought more proof.”
I peer into the bag. It’s filled with the telltale signs of a competitive guy—Tupperware container after Tupperware container.
“You do know I didn’t ask for a bake-off,” I point out as I shut the door, then motion for him to follow me. “We don’t have to compete with each other.”
“Oh, I’m not competing with you,” he says.
I arch a brow,what-givesstyle, as I turn into the tiny kitchen with its sad, army-green counters and dingy brown cupboards. If I could paint them and not violate my lease, I so would. “You’re not?”
“I’m competing with me,” he says, tapping his chest.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m going to show you I’m more than just the money. That’s my condition.”
I don’t entirely get what he’s going for. “Corbin,” I say, imploring. “I know you can bake.”
He lifts a finger and wags it back and forth. “You’ve tried a few things. And that’s just not enough, especially when I’ve eaten your sweets—I dunno—a dozen or more times.”
I can barely focus when he talks like that.
Eating.
Sweets.
Me.
“Right,” I say, trying to clear the filthy thoughts from my head. Has my kitchen always been so small? It’s around forty square feet, but is thatreallyenough room for him, me, and all my dirty thoughts?
Unlikely.
“Let me show you, Mabel.” He dips a hand into the bag, grabs a container, and pops it open. The spicy-sweet aroma of pumpkin floats into my senses. “Pumpkin blondies with chocolate chips. No nuts,” he emphasizes as he reaches for one. “Made them with Charlotte last night. She’s at a friend’s house in the city today.”
My mouth waters. “Smells good.”
“Try it,” he urges, a little commanding, and I like the sound of his voice. Confidence tinged with hope.
I pause for a second. Is he going to feed it to me? I don’t love being fed, so I take it from him right away, then bite into it.
It’s rich and chewy, toasty and warm, like autumn. Milk chocolate runs throughout.
I could rave about the treat, but I doubt Corbin would believe me. The man wants to earn my praise. To vie for it. Plus, he wouldn’t want me to sayyes, yes, yesso easily.
“It’s good,” I say, “but what else have you got?”
Like he’s taking shot after shot on goal, he grabs another Tupperware container and offers me a piece of bread that smells lemony and zesty. “Since you hate nuts, I made some lemon bread late last night.”
As I take a bite, I realize it’s more like lemon cake, sweet and moist and just the right amount of tart. I nearly moan, but I hold back so he can prove himself. “I like it, but what’s next?”
And the answer is…
“Trythis thing,” he says, then pops open one more container and plucks out a white, very average-looking cupcake. I arch a skeptical brow at the vanilla-on-vanilla concoction.
“Just try it,” he urges. “Not everything has to be an Earl Grey, honey-infused latte cupcake to be good.”
“Fair point.”
I bite into it, and sweetness tap-dances on my tongue. It tastes like nostalgia, like the slice of cake your grandma or grandpa would give you when you went to their house after school, like something that made you unreasonably happy when you were a kid.
