I laughed under my breath, and she curled tighter into my side, lifting the remote.
“Now be quiet,” she said. “You’re interrupting very serious cookie judging.”
Didn’t take long for me to realise she was really watching this. Eyes locked on the screen like a strategist. Knees tucked up, she was speaking in commentary.
“They overmixed the dough,” she muttered.
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means they’re screwed.”
“They’re decorating cookies.”
“They’re building edible sculptures,” she corrected. “And that guy’s using royal icing like it’s his first day.”
I looked at the screen. Looked at her. Then back again.
“I feel like I’m being indoctrinated,” I muttered. Because somewhere between complaining and listening, I’d started to care.
“You are.” She reached for a strawberry from the bowl, and kept watching like it was a high-stakes fight night. When one of the contestants dropped a tray, she gasped, hand slapping my thigh without thinking. Her touch had stopped startling me. I’d started craving it.
“He’s done for,” she whispered, shaking her head.
“You sound pleased.”
“Maybe a little.”
“You’re ruthless.”
“You’re in denial.”
“About what?”
“You care who wins.”
I scoffed. “I don’t.”
“Liar.”
I didn’t reply, because she’d caught me.
“You want the lady with the pixie cut to win,” she nudged my shoulder. “You like her color palette.”
“She’s efficient.”
“She’s your emotional support baker.”
“She’s precise,” I muttered. “And she doesn’t talk while piping.”
“Exactly.”
I gave her a sideways glare, but it didn’t stick. She was grinning too hard.
“Wanna bet on the winner?” she asked.
“What’s the wager?”
“If I win,” she said, leaning into my side, “you have to wear something I pick next time we go out.”
