I dip my chin. “And my personal favorites—” I pause to drum my hands against the table “—are the Support but Delegate Partner. They care because their partner cares, and they’ll have opinions about the big stuff but won’t die on any hills that involve napkin colors or frosting flavors.”
“Those sound like the best,” he agrees. “Involved, but not in a way that’ll get them banished to the couch for the foreseeable future.”
An unexpected laugh flies from my lips. “You get it.”
While we wait for Tyler, we get back to work, and I regale him with spectacularly memorable experiences—like the groom who asked mid-tasting, in front of me, if they could just get a MetroMart sheet cake to save money because “all cakes taste the same.”
The rookie arrives twenty minutes later, looking absolutely panicked by his tardiness. Cameron’s scowl doesn’t help, though my reassuring smile doesn’t seem to put him at ease either.
I elbow Cameron and shoot him a look. “Don’t stress, Tyler,” I say to the rookie. “Is everything okay?”
He runs a hand through his hair and puffs out a breath. “Yeah. I’m helping plan my brother-in-law’s bachelor party, and his groomsmen are… scratch that,onegroomsman, is the bane of my existence. I spent an hour explaining why we can’t hire fire dancers.”
Cameron cocks his head to the left. “Instead of strippers?”
Snorting, Tyler shakes his head. “No strippers either way. The fire dancers are for ‘ambiance.’” He uses finger quotes around the word.
I hum. “They’re popular in Hawaii as part of?—”
“The bachelor party is in Florida,” Tyler interrupts, his voice flat. “Boca, to be exact.”
“My grandparents live there,” I comment, lips twitching.
“So do mine,” he says. “We’re staying at their house.”
Cameron barks out a laugh and shakes his head. “Doesn’t your future brother-in-law have a house in Monaco?”
This only seems to stoke Tyler’s ire. “Yes.”
“Ah. I see why the fire dancers would raise some questions,” I admit with an apologetic smile.
“Exactly.” He shakes his head as if it’ll erase the stress. “Anyway, that’s why I was late. I’m ready to bake now, though.”
“Then let’s do it. We’re making cookies and cinnamon rolls.” I clap once, then gesture to the ingredients I’ve laid out—flour, yeast, butter, brown sugar, and cinnamon.
Tyler shuffles toward Richard Mixon, but I quickly redirect him. “Your ingredients are in front of Count Mixula.”
Sophie and Maya bought me a second KitchenAid mixer in celebration of the kitchen space. I was going to name it Miximus Prime, but then Cameron came up with the vampire-inspired name, which was obviously the way better option.
“Why does it matter which mixer?” Tyler asks, his brows furrowed in confusion. “Not that I’m upset with Count Mixula or anything.”
“Cameron’s ingredients are celiac friendly.” I point to the gluten-free flour. “Yours are not.”
Cameron’s playful expression softens as he takes in the ingredients laid out specifically for him. If he thought I’d force him to bake treats he can’t enjoy, he clearly doesn’t know me at all.
“Oh shit, I didn’t know you were celiac.” Tyler turns to Cameron. “Have you been to Felix’s? I went a couple of weeks ago. Their gluten-free pizza is better than their normal—sorry, not that celiac isn’t normal—I just mean it’s better than theregular one they have. And not like ‘good for gluten-free better’ but legitimately better. We can go sometime if you want.” He snaps his mouth shut, his eyes wide and his ears going pink.
If it wouldn’t send Cameron into cardiac arrest, I’d kiss Tyler on the lips (platonically) for how effortlessly kind he is. Cameron’s celiac isn’t a secret, but he hates feeling like an inconvenience, and Tyler’s invitation is so easily offered.
We start on the cookie dough since they’ll need time to cool completely before decorating. The two men duke it out over who gets what cookie cutter like they’re negotiating draft picks. Tyler’s very passionate about the star shape, which Cameron doesn’t care for. But Cameron nearly gives the rookie a black eye when he lunges for the rocket ship. When I raise a brow at his reaction, he simply shrugs. “I wanted to be an astronaut when I was a kid.”
In order to maintain my composure, I have to press my lips together for a moment. I don’t have the heart to remind him that the rocket ship shape in his hand doubles as my dick cookie cutter.
Besides half of Tyler’s dough ending up in his stomach rather than the cookie sheet, the experience is seamless. As the cookies bake, we move onto cinnamon rolls. Normally, I’d use yeast, but since this is a beginner-level class and Tyler told me in no uncertain terms that he doesn’t have the patience to wait two to three hours for cinnamon rolls, we pivot and use biscuit dough as our base instead.
The conversation is easy and light as I lead them through the process, and by the time we pop them into the oven, the cookies have cooled and Cameron seems much more at ease with his teammate.
“Okay, first thing you need to know about decorating cookies,” I tell them, pulling my hair back tighter and securing it with another elastic from my wrist, “is that it’s way moreforgiving than people think. Royal icing is basically edible paint, and cookies are your canvas.”
