Page 52 of Back To You

I shake my head and laugh because what I want to do—throw her into the backseat of my car andshowher how much I like it—-wouldn't be appropriate.

“What errands did you need to run?” I ask her when we both get into the car.

“I wanted to get some baking things—flour, sugar, cocoa powder, other ingredients and supplies. That kind of stuff.”

“For the cake you’re making me?” I tease, and I make a mental note of one more errand I need to run, one I need to do without Annie before she gets home from her first day of rotations on Monday.

“Ha, funny,” she deadpans before adding, “We have Sunday Dinner tomorrow at Mia and Eddie’s, so I need to make a dessert.” A moment passes before she continues. “But I guess some baked goods could count as my rent since you won’t let me pay you anything for it.”

“Exactly,” I answer. I would never make her pay me for staying at my place for a few months. “I’m already thinking of all the desserts you can make me between now and October when your new apartment is ready.”

Her words make a movie of memories play out in my head—all the times she baked me a birthday cake and how much better they got over the years. The first cake she ever baked me was for my 12th birthday, and it was borderline liquid when we cut into it.

The last one was for when the Lenny's crew got together to celebrate me graduating law school at my apartment. They were all the to watch me walk across the stage and get my diploma. That cake was the best thing I ever tasted; I’ve had literal dreams about the dark chocolate cake and the peanut butter frosting.

Well, maybe second best—Annie tastes pretty damn good.

She laughs. “I can’t believe I’ll be living down the hall from you in just over a month.” She lets out a sigh, “But in all seriousness, with rotations starting, my stress level is about to skyrocket, meaning I’ll need something to doto keep me sane and help me relax. Get ready to eat cookies and cupcakes for every meal starting Monday.”

“I can think of some things I can do to help you relax,” I flirt, never missing a chance to push her buttons. It’s like second nature to me after this long.

Annie reaches behind her to grab her seatbelt, willing her face to stay the same. “But if it has to do with you, itdefinitelywon’t keep me sane.”

She clicks her seatbelt in and tucks her hair behind her ears. “I would hope not,” I quip. “I would hope it would drive you crazy, just like it did last night.”

This time, she can’t control the small inhale she takes and the widening of her eyes.

Got her.

She turns to face me, ears red and her signature death glare in full effect. “Drive.”

***

I drop Annie off at home, helping her bring in her bags of baking supplies and the stuff we got for Rosie, and let her know I need to stop over at Lenny’s.

She looks like she’s about to offer to come with me, but I saw the sparkle in her eyes when she was throwing all kinds of stuff in the cart at the grocery store.

She’s itching to get started on dessert for tomorrow night.

I head back the way we came, stopping to get the perfect present for Annie. Her birthday is coming up at the end of September, and I haven’t given her a birthday gift in years. The last time I did was a bouquet of roses for her 19th birthday, and she told me that she’d rather me just drop off the face of the Earth as a gift.

Then she took a lighter and set the flowers on fire.

And because she, of course, wants the one thing I won’t give her—leaving her alone—I haven’t gotten her anything since.

Until this year.

I’ll frame this year’s gift as an early birthday gift and acongrats-on-starting rotationsgift. I know she won’t be able to resist being happy about it, especially after I saw the state of her old stand mixer after the break-in.

After picking her up a new one—a bright red one, that reminded me of her lips after she puts her cherry lip gloss on—I actually did stop at Lenny’s because I could never lie to Annie. I told her I was coming here, so I did.

Ava’s working with one of the other new bartenders, Mickey. The two look like they have everything under control, so I give them a quick wave before rounding the bar and heading back to Emmett’s office to make next week’s schedule.

But before I can, I hear a voice I haven’t heard since high school.

“Luke Owens?” the voice booms, and I turn to find Grant, my buddy from my high school’s hockey team, sitting at the end of the bar.

He was our goalie; big and built enough at 17 to buy us alcohol at the local gas station and not get carded. His dirty blonde hair is a little darker now, and he has more facial hair than he did the last time I saw him.

---