Page 73 of I Wanna Text You Up

“It’s because there are directions and timers and love involved. Baking is a labor oflove!”

“Okay, grandma, calm down. I’ll remake the sauce, but you need to keep your distance. I don’t know what kind of voodoo you’re up to, but there will be none of that in mykitchen.”

I hang my head, feeling a little embarrassed about my flub. “Okay, I get it, Isuck.”

“You don’tsuck.”

I can’t not make the comment… “Oh, but I do,” I say,winking.

He breaks out in laughter and grabs the bag he brought home, pulling out the package of breadsticks and shaking it. “Can you manage putting these on apan?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Yes, youass.”

“Hey, I have valid reasons for questioning your cooking skills. All I asked you to do was watch water boil and move a saucepan from one burner toanother.”

“A watched pot never boils,” Imutter.

“What wasthat?”

“I said the water wouldn’t boil. I was watching and watching, and nothing was happening, so I turned up the heat and starting working on the cookiedough.”

“And then what happened?” hepushes.

“Iforgot.”

“Youforgot?”

“That’s what Isaid.”

He drops his head, and I can see his shouldersshaking.

I toss a hand towel at him, barely missing the stove—and another fire. “Stop laughing! This is a seriousproblem!”

“This is why I am so confused on how you can bake, but notcook.”

“Timers, man! Timers make all thedifference.”

“I am so happy I moved in so you’re not dying of starvation or cursing me in ten years when all that mac and cheese is sitting on yourhips.”

“They’d be the happiest hips in the world. Mac and cheese is goddamn delicious, and you knowit.”

He grabs the sauce ingredients from the fridge…for the third time tonight. “Homemade mac and cheese is delicious. That boxed crap is shit, and you knowit.”

“You have methere.”

The timer sounds on the oven so I grab an oven mitt, shove Caleb aside, and pull dessert out before switching it off. I place them on a cooling rack and turn to my baking cabinet, looking for Kisses to put on top of thecookies.

“Shit,” I mutter when I find my almost empty bag. I spin around, showing Caleb what I find. “Looks like you’re getting about four Kissestonight.”

He grins, grabbing the paper bag he brought home off the counter and pulling out a brand new package. “Oh, I’m getting more than four.” Leaning against the counter, he crosses his legs, tossing the bag of chocolates from one hand to the other, back and forth. “How about this: you get one Kiss for every two Iget.”

I cross my arms over my chest and mirror his pose. “One forone.”

“One fortwo.”

“One forone.”

“One for three,” hecounters.