Funny how I gave him a ten out of ten on the monkey bread, but when I utter a long and satisfied “yessss,” he seems to believe it more.
Maybe because I moaned the loudest for the chocolate chip cookies.
“Do you believe me now?” he asks as we clean up.
“That you can bake your ass off?”
“Yes.”
“Dude, you had me at the monkey bread. You didn’t have to prove it.”
“But I did,” he says, insistent, strong.
“Why?” I scrub the last measuring cup under the hot water and hand it to him to set on the rack.
“Because,” he says, as he dries it then gives me the towel. “What if I don’tjustwant to invest in it?”
Wait.
What?
He came over here to show me he doesn’t want to finance it? What was the point of this baking exercise?
I mentally gulp, and somehow manage to say, so stoically, I could be a hockey player, “If you don’t want to, I’ll figure something out.”
But inside, my thoughts are spinning faster than a washing machine out of whack. What can I do to salvage this? I can turn the firehouse into my ghost kitchen, and then I’ll just have to work all day, and all night, and take on more orders, and market more and harder, and maybe then someday it’ll be enough. I’ll be enough.
He shakes his head, setting a hand on my arm. “No, I mean—what if I want to do more than simply put money in it? What if I want to…” He pauses, like he’s still a little surprised by the words coming out of his mouth. “Help run it when I can.”
“Wh-what?”
That was the last thing I’d expected. Even after this macho bake-off. I figured thisunder one conditionwas male posturing. Showing me he’s got skills, so I knew he was more than the money. But I didn’t think he’d want to strap on an apron for real.
“That’s the condition, Mabel,” he says, swallowing roughly as he lets go of my arm.
“But…you’re busy with hockey and your daughter, like Theo said.”
“I know,” he says, voice raw and vulnerable. “And he’s not wrong. But my dream isn’t simply to finance a bakery. If that was my dream, I would have done that already.” He blows out a breath like he’s gearing up to say something hard. “I want to help run one. That’s why I came here today to bake for you. Why I baked for you last night. I want you to see that Icando this. I wanted you to try a bunch of things I made so you’d know I’m not just a guy who can write a check.”
“You do?”
“I really do. I can’t be around every day, of course, with travel, games, and parenting. But when I can, I’d like to try my hand at the mixer. The counter. The oven.” His smile is tinged with anticipation, like he’s the one on the edge of his seat.
“Really?”
“Definitely.” He gestures to the plate of cookies he just baked for me, and the bag full of last night’s proof of his prowess. “Did I convince you?”
I could say I was convinced yesterday, but that’s not why he cleared his schedule to bake for me. “Yes, Corbin. You’re as talented in the kitchen as you are with a hockey stick,” I say, maybe with a playful emphasis on stick.
Tipping his head back, he laughs. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”
“Oh, good. I’ll keep using it.”
“You do that, Mabel.”
“Count on it.”
When his laughter fades all the way, his lips quirk in a grin. “Then I say, if not now, when?”
