Page 78 of Perfectly Grumpy

He smirks. “Only one way to find out.”

He does the behind-the-back catch flawlessly, but when he attempts to transition to under the leg, Uncle Bobby walks by and interrupts his flow. The egg smashes on the floor.

Tate winces at the mess. “Almost.”

I press my lips together. “And here I thought your hockey skills would transfer to the kitchen.” I grab a paper towel and hand it to him. “Maybe save the fancy moves for the ice.”

Tate glances back at Aunt Karen who shakes her head. He leans toward me. “Is Aunt Karen going to kick me out?”

“Not a chance,” I say. “You’re way too charming. You had her at‘teachers are underpaid and under-appreciated.’That line bought you a lifetime membership to her good graces.”

Dad strolls by, carrying a pan full of cake batter. “Seems like you two are having way too much fun over here.” He smiles, then nods toward our competitors. “But you’d better hurry—Bart and Abby already have their cupcakes in the oven.”

When I glance over, I notice Abby rubbing her forehead, while Bart lectures her about something. I definitely do not miss that side of him.

“I think the stress is getting to them,” Dad whispers before he leaves.

I elbow Tate in the ribs. “We need to get to work.” I snatch the eggs from Tate’s hands before he can think up any more tricks.

Once the batter is mixed, we pop the cake pans into the only available oven—which, unfortunately, is the same one Bart and Abby are using. Then I start on the frosting recipe.

When Abby pulls her cupcakes out of the oven a little later,she accidentally bumps one of our cake pans while trying to reach around it. The pan tips, tumbling face-down onto the floor with a splat.

My heart sinks as I stare at our chocolate creation now splattered across the tile.

“Sorry,” Abby says, her expression genuinely apologetic as she clutches her cupcake tray. “I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s okay, Abby,” I say, forcing a smile. “Accidents happen.”

That’s when I catch Bart grinning at our mishap. “Karma sucks, doesn’t it?” he says, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Tate steps forward without a word, kneels down, and slides a spatula under our broken cake, scooping it up in one smooth motion. His movements are calm, almost surgical in their precision, but the muscle clenched in his jaw tells me he’s showing grace, even when Bart doesn’t deserve it.

“No problem at all,” Tate says calmly, rising to his full height. “But a word of advice, Bart? Don’t say stuff like that again.”

“Or what?” Bart challenges, his smirk faltering slightly.

Tate gives him what I know is a half-hearted smile. “Or those cupcakes might not make it to the end of the competition.”

I stare at him as Tate returns with our broken cake. “Did you seriously just threaten to destroy their cupcakes?”

“I’m not going to destroy them,” he says, “but if I let the kids run loose in the kitchen with Annie…well, things happen,” he says with a hint of a smile.

I look over the broken cake in front of me. “What are we going to do about that?”

Tate studies the damage, then snaps his fingers. “Candy. What if we just hide the damage with lots of sugar?”

I blink at him. “You do realize the kids will be on a sugar high for the rest of the night?”

He shrugs. “I’ll take them outside and let them run around with Annie. You know, kids are like dogs—all you need to do to keep them happy is feed ’em and run ’em.”

“Since when are you a child development expert?” I ask.

“Since your niece and nephew.” He winks. “They’ve taught me everything I need to know.”

With our candy strategy settled, we get to work on the cake reconstruction effort. The cracked, sunken cake goes on the bottom and we fill the gap with as much peanut butter filling as possible to prop it up. It still looks like the leaning tower of chocolate cake, but at least it’s standing.

“Fifteen minutes!” Aunt Karen calls as she checks her timer.

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