“I might have noticed you doing one or two. Briefly. For research. I’m a chef, after all, so it’s a professional interest.”
He nods, all faux seriousness. “Is that also why you’ve been watching me through your curtain?”
I half choke on nothing. “That doesn’t sound like me.”
“The blinds, then. I’m not picky about terminology.”
“I think you’re mistaken.”
He just laughs because we both know the truth.
“So, why here?” I ask, steering us toward safer ground. “A big famous food blogger moves to Mistberry Cove. That’s not exactly the expected trajectory.”
He shifts his weight against the fence, tilts his head. “I grew up loud. Nashville, big city, cameras, content schedule, never a quiet moment. Then I relocated to Austin for a long time, another big, loud place. But I wanted a spot where I could hear myself think.” He glances out past my yard toward the cliff edge, where the ocean is doing its silver shimmer. “You can see the water from the upstairs window. First morning I woke up here and just… heard nothing. Gulls. Wind. That was it.”
“That’s what kept me here,” I say and mean it.
“Plus, the kitchen has two ovens.”
“Now you’re speaking my language.”
He grins, and the breeze pushes his hair again. For a second, he’s not a man with millions of followers and a brand and a shirtless baking empire. He’s just a person standing at a fence, talking to his neighbor about kitchens, and I wish my pulse would calm down because this is getting embarrassing.
Brody makes a short, clicking chirp from the back of his tongue, fast, twice, and Damien’s head snaps toward him. The cat springs off my chest, crosses the grass in enormous bounds, and launches himself at the fence. Brody catches him in midair. Scoops him up one-armed, tucks him against his chest. Damien burrows into his neck, and Brody scratches behind his ear without looking.
“Oh, and if you’re curious about the filming,” Brody adds, those blue eyes back on me, “you’re welcome to come over anytime. Watch in person. Much better resolution than through blinds.”
“I’m fine, thanks. I have a book to write.”
“Ah, that’s right. The cookbook.” He nods, adjusting Damien against his shoulder. “Speaking of which, I made one of your recipes the other day, actually. Just uploaded it.”
I straighten up. I can’t help it. “Which one?”
He buries his grin into Damien’s fur. “You’ll have to find out.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?”
“You can’t just tell someone you cooked their recipe and then not say which one.”
“I can, though. I just did.” He’s already backing away from the fence, Damien draped over his shoulder, eyes locked on mine, and that smirk is nuclear. “See you around, neighbor.”
He disappears through his back door, and I sit there on the lounger. Then I count to five and grab my phone from my pocket.
My fingers are clumsy. I fumble the passcode twice, open ManBaker, and there it is. Posted twenty minutes ago. Already at a hundred and forty thousand views, which is a number that makes my brain short-circuit because my book has sold sixty thousand copies total, and his cat video from last week got triple that in an hour.
I hit Play.
The video opens mid-motion. No introduction, no setup. Just Brody, bare-chested in low-slung jeans, flour already streaked across his stomach, sliding across his kitchen floor in socked feet with a mixing bowl in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other. A song is playing, bass-heavy, and he’s moving to it with his entire body, hips rolling, shoulders loose, spinning the spoon between his fingers before catching it and pointing it at the camera with a smile that has me fanning myself.
Damien sits on his stool in a tiny red vest, watching with the weary tolerance of a costar who didn’t agree to this.
Brody cracks eggs one-handed, flicking the shells into the trash without looking, still moving to the beat. He pours flour, and a cloud of it rises, catching the golden light, and settles on his chest. He doesn’t wipe it off. He just keeps going, stirring, measuring, his hips never fully still, every motion fluid and theatrical and so comfortable in his own skin that it makes my throat dry.
He grabs the rolling pin, holds it to his mouth, tips his chin up, eyes closed, and mimes the lyrics with absolute commitment, full chest voice he’s pretending to belt, shoulders swaying, free hand pressed to his heart. Damien stands up on the stool, walks to the edge, and very deliberately turns his entire body away from Brody. Tail flick. Total dismissal.
Brody opens one eye, catches the rejection, and his silent laughter shakes his shoulders.
