I tighten my grip on the measuring cup, scraping peanut butter off the spoon like it requires all my focus. The words stick in my throat for a second, like I have to force myself to say them.
But why? Why the fuck am I struggling?
I half want to tell them the truth—that I don’t want to go on dates this holiday season, that I don’t want to pretend I’m looking for love. December twenty-fifth will always be the day the mother of my child erected a headstone for my heart in the graveyard of romance. I’d rather skip this day on the calendar. Sleep through it. Ignore it entirely. But honestly, my friends know most of that. They know my feelings too well. That’s why they’re here, showing up and helping out. Because they want me to move the fuck on from that kind of heartbreak.
So I’d better not grumble. Even if I don't want to swap cookies at the event with any of the women…except Isla.
Wait. What the hell? Is that why I’m struggling to tell my friends the details of the cookie swap? Because I want something else entirely from it?
Like…more flirting with Isla Marlowe. I picture offering her a peanut butter blossom cookie. Watching her dip it in hot cocoa with a satisfied smile while telling me she predicted I’d make that cookie, then whipping out her goddamn color-coded planner and triumphantly showing me the list she made the night before—Three Things Rowan Bishop Will Do at the Cookie Swap.
The corner of my lips twitches, but I do my best to fight off a grin at the image. I’d taunt her right back, daring her to take a bite, then watching her lips as she savored it.
It’s not an awful image at all.
But I’ve got to snap myself out of this stupid daydream. I need to stop overthinking my crush on her. Just get through it and make it to the other side.
I clear my throat, about to explain the cookie swap when a loud rap on the door echoes through my home. I’m not expecting anyone, but maybe it’s a delivery? Could be more books for Mia. Grabbing my phone, I swipe open the camera app, then toss my head back and laugh. “Who invited Marlowe?”
Corbin flashes aguilty as chargedgrin. “Me. I need better pics of us baking,” he says. “Action shots are better than posed ones.”
I roll my eyes. “So you called our agent?”
Tyler snorts. “Double dipper,” he says to Corbin.
“I’ll say,” I second.
Corbin frowns dramatically. “Aww, does it hurt your feelings that I’m getting picsandhelping your sorry ass bake?”
“Honestly, it does,” I say, but I don’t quite mean it. Fact is, Corbin’s got a good head for business. Dude is sharp and strategic. Pics of him and his “sports-ball buds” baking would probably help sell his future bakery. “And I want a cut of sales when you plaster our photos on the walls of All This and I Can Bake someday. Hey, I just named your future bakery. Double my percentage.”
“Done,” Corbin says. “And just in case math isn’t your strong suit, zero doubled is still nothing.”
After I flip him the flour-covered bird, I wipe my hands on the apron and head to the door. “If it isn’t the resident photographer,” I say as I swing it open.
“And jack-of-all-trades, evidently.” Jason comes inside, toeing off his shoes.
“An agent’s job is never done.”
Jason heads into the kitchen with me, and as the three of us get to work, he snaps pics of us baking and mixing. When Jason lowers the phone a little, he eyes the cookie trays. “This a cookie date or something for Rowan? Corbin just texted to say I needed to take pics of all you guys baking. But I didn’t get any more intel.”
“Yeah, Bishop. Fess up,” Corbin tells me. “You’ve been keeping your deep, dark cookie swap details from us.”
“Right, right. That’s what I’ve been doing while you’ve been arranging baking photo ops,” I say as I open the oven and slide in the first tray of peanut butter blossoms.
When I close the door, I explain at last. “Isla’s setting up a kind of speed-dating thing for tomorrow. Three guys, three women. We all meet, exchange cookies, and chat.”
“That sounds so wholesome,” Corbin says.
The ideas man, always at work, points to Corbin. “Maybe you should host cookie swaps at your future bakery.”
Corbin’s eyes flicker, and he grabs his phone, dictating a note into it before setting it down. “That’s kind of a cool way to meet someone.”
Tyler arches a brow my way. “But aren’t you worried, Rowan?”
“About what?” I ask, spooning batter onto the next tray.
Tyler smirks. “That all of the women are going to be into the other guys there.”
