Page 19 of Kayak Girl

Panic set in. Could people hear my shenanigans? I rushed to close the only open window. I stepped on a small, upturned bucket to reach it. “Nope. All good,” I called out, before shutting it.

“Okay.” Gray’s now muted voice floated through the cracks in the door.

I exhaled a shaky breath, my fingers trembling slightly. Attempting to dismount from my precarious perch atop the bucket, I miscalculated. The bucket skidded away, sending me tumbling to the floor in a graceless heap.

Just then, another series of knocks echoed, patient but persistent. “I can still hear you attacking the kitchen in there. Come on, open up. I’m here to help, remember?”

Lying there amidst the culinary carnage, I weighed my options. A quick glance at the large clock adorning the kitchen wall reminded me of Brenda’s imminent arrival for dinner prep. She’d return in just over an hour. Could I get this all sorted before then? Probably not. Maybe I should just accept the help.

A reluctant admission of defeat began to form in my thoughts. Perhaps accepting Gray’s offer was the sensible choice. I pushed myself off the floor, feeling the cool tiles against my palms. I straightened my apron, a futile gesture given the state of it, and made my way to the door.

Taking a deep breath, I reached for the key, the metal cold and solid under my fingers. I hesitated for just a moment, then unlocked the door, ready to face whatever help—or havoc—Gray might bring.

“What has this poor innocent kitchen done to deserve this?” Gray teased as he surveyed the disaster behind me.

Heat crept up my face. On second thought, dealing with this mess alone seemed more appealing. So, I moved to shut the door, but Gray stepped into the doorway to stop me.

“Hey, I’m just joking. Let me help you with... with whatever this is…” His eyes shone with mirth as he took in my appearance.

“Okay, but I’m just warning you, I’m about this close to crying,” I said, holding up a dough-covered thumb and index finger to show how little composure I had left.

“Noted. What exactly are you up to?”

“I, uh, I’m helping Brenda bake cookies,” I said, feeling my cheeks warm again. “But it seems I’m more of a kitchen nightmare than a helper.”

He chuckled, stepping over the debris to join me in front of the mixing bowl. “I’m no expert, but I can follow instructions.”

Grateful, I took a deep breath. “I just need to get a few batches in the oven, then clean up.”

Gray nodded. “Tell me what to do,” he offered, his voice steady and sure.

“Okay,” I began, my eyes scanning the recipe as if it were a map to buried treasure. “I still need coconut flakes, chocolate chips...” My finger trailed down the list, ticking off the ingredients we had yet to add. “... and 16 eggs. Oh, and vanilla essence.” I blew my fringe out of my eyes feeling totally overwhelmed. “The batter doesn’t look right, so I thought I might add some water, but I’m not sure.”

As I reached for the jug of water that had been calling to me since I’d noticed how stodgy the mixture was, Gray’s hand gently but firmly stopped me. “Like I said, I’m not a baker, but I’m pretty sure if we stick to the recipe, it’ll turn out okay. Let’s just follow it to the letter and see how it goes. How about I start with the eggs?”

“Deal,” I agreed, a small smile breaking through my stress. In that moment, I marveled at Gray’s ability to bring order to my chaos. His straightforward, practical approach was like a balm to my overthinking mind. Despite his self-professed lack of baking expertise, he had a way of simplifying things, of seeing the path through the flour-dusted fog that often clouded my thoughts. I found myself leaning into the comfort that came with not facing this culinary battle alone.

We worked in tandem, Gray steadying bowls as I attempted to salvage what I could of the dough. His nearness caused me to blush. I told myself it was just the heat from the oven, but I wasn’t entirely convinced.

Our banter came easily, a back-and-forth that felt as natural as breathing. Despite the mess, I found myself laughing more than I had in a long time.

“Now, just the vanilla essence,” I said. Shuffling over to the cupboards, I dragged my trusty upturned bucket with me, knowing the elusive essence was stored on the highest shelf. I clambered onto the bucket, rising onto my tiptoes, straining every muscle to reach the bottle nestled at the back. My fingertips just grazed it.

Before I could launch into another attempt, Gray’s presence enveloped the space behind me. “Here, let me help you,” he offered, his voice a comforting timbre.

With an ease that made me both grateful and a tad envious, he plucked the bottle from its lofty abode. I exhaled a sigh of relief, and spun around to thank him, but found myself unexpectedly close—too close. Perched on my bucket, I was almost eye-level with him, his mesmerizing gaze locking onto mine. I knew I should extract myself, yet I remained frozen in place.

“You smell like a bakery,” he observed, his voice dropping to a soft, almost intimate murmur.

My cheeks flamed. I tried to brush away the flour smudging my face, but only succeeded in smearing it with more cookie ingredients.

“Here, let me,” he said again, his voice now a gravelly whisper that sent shivers down my spine.

I inhaled sharply as his warm thumb gently swept away the food traces on my face. His gaze tenderly explored my features, pausing momentarily on my lips. My breath hitched, my heart pounding.

Whispers of reality began to flutter through my thoughts, a gentle reminder of my plans. No relationships this year.

“Gray,” I whispered, my voice barely rising above the hum of the old refrigerator.

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