“Not denying the greatness part, I see.”
“Not going to deny the truth.”
I scoff. “You’re annoying.”
He props an elbow on the table and rests his chin in his annoyingly large hand. “You’re cute when you’re angry.”
I divert my gaze from noticing his hands and his mouth and busy myself with flipping open my notebook to a clean page. “I’d rather be terrifying when I’m angry.”
“Sorry.” A smile plays on his lips as he brings the cup back to his mouth and sips. I glare at him as he does so, which seems to only make him smile wider. “It’s like when a toddler tries to get angry, but they mispronounce all the words and you can’t take them seriously.”
I grit my teeth at the visual, but choose to ignore him instead. The longer we sit here and bicker, the longer it will take to actually plan this damn thing, which means the more time I have to spend with him.
“Okay,” I sigh, pulling out my laptop and flipping it open. “Let’s get this over with.”
“What even goes into a couples shower?” Reid asks.
“Location, food, desserts, games, invitations.” I tick the items off on my fingers.
“God’s sake,” he mutters. “Okay, well I can cater.”
“Generous of you.”
“I am putting out ‘catered by’ signs to promote the restaurant.”
“I would expect absolutely nothing less.”
“Desserts?” he asks.
“I can,” I quickly offer. Baking has always been my happy place—being able to turn off my brain as I measure ingredients and watch the oven to make sure things are cooking correctly, the challenge of expanding my skillset by watching thousands of cake and cookie decorating videos online, the pride I feel when I accomplish what I’m seeking out to do.
And the delight of always having a sweet treat in the house when I’m stressed and need the sugar to make me happy again.
This is something I’m good at, something I love to do, and I’m thrilled to be able to do something nice for my sister. Here’s hoping she notices and appreciates it, but even if she doesn’t, I get some hours of creativity and some extra cookies in my freezer out of it.
“Great,” Reid agrees. “Which bakery are you thinking of?”
I deflate slightly at the assumption that I’d order it out, but then I remember Reid knows next to nothing about me. He only knows that I’m a new food journalist and that my sister is marrying his best friend.
“No, I can make them.”
His eyes narrow slightly as he processes the information, then he says, “I feel like your sister has higher expectations than boxed cake mix and an ice cream bar.”
Damn. Okay then.
“Okay first of all, an ice cream bar would be delicious. But second of all, I’m a home baker. I can make cake and custom cookies. Mini cheesecakes. Delicious little brownies. That kind of stuff.”
He arches a brow at me. “You feel confident that those will meet your sister’s lofty expectations?”
I mean not anymore, but I don’t want him to see me weak.
“Yes.”
Fake it ‘til you make it, right? If I act confident, I shall be confident. I think even if I paid thousands at a local bakery, she’d find a way to nitpick and be unhappy, so I may as well do it myself. It’s fun for me. Soothing. A creative outlet.
That and I soak up the compliments from people saying I did a great job. Great for my ego. It’s a win-win.
Plus, she complimented me on my cookies once, so I mean, she has to appreciate the effort if nothing else, right?
