Page 22 of The Pumpkin Spice Proposal
“Ah, see, that’s the thing.” The false sincerity thickened. “I have to pick up folding tables. Two-man job. Very heavy. Tragic, really.” He sighed as if he were announcing a death. “If only there were another strong, capable man nearby. Someone with incredible reflexes and finely honed precision.”
I lowered my book. Leveled a flat stare at my best friend. “No.”
“Come on. It’s the perfect cover. What’s more boring than helping your girlfriend bake? Gold-standard optics. My mom will be thrilled.”
He’d weaponized my own strategy. The only thing I wanted more than peace was maintaining the illusion that was supposed to get me peace. Perfect Catch-22.
“It’s cupcakes, Mario. Not dismantling a gearbox. Measure some flour, crack some eggs. An hour, tops.” His voice softened. “She’s stressed.”
That did it. The image of her that first day—frantic energy, whacking the register like it had personally offended her. The way her shoulders carried tension like armor.
Since the crash, I’d gotten good at recognizing stress in others. Recognized the signs I’d ignored in myself.
I set down the book. “One hour.”
Ben’s smile turned triumphant. “You’re a prince. She’s at my mom’s, in the kitchen. Try not to get motor oil in the batter.”
I walked the three blocks to the Sage house, hands shoved deep in my jacket pockets against the brisk autumn air. The front door was propped open; laughter and the smell of cinnamon spilled onto the porch as if the whole house had been invited into the street.
When I stepped inside, the house felt like a warm, noisy organism. From upstairs, Olivia was singing something about a unicorn who worked at a car wash. From the kitchen came the clatter of pots and pans—Margaret preparing for what sounded like a siege. Ben waved me toward the island.
The kitchen was a disaster zone that made the festival setup look sterile. Every surface was covered—from bowls of apples to flour dusting the counter like fresh snow, to butter softening on plates, and everywhere I looked, was a bewildering array of spices. It smelled warm and sweet. Cinnamon, vanilla, melting sugar. Fragrant and inviting and utterly chaotic.Caos.
My teeth were on edge before I’d taken three steps.
Lily stood at the center island, back to me. Hair pulled back in a ponytail, though a few strands had escaped to curl around her face. She wore jeans and an apron that saidI like you a choco-lot—which I found spiritually offensive. Puns were the lowest form of humor. Crimes against language. And this one dragged chocolate, an innocent bystander, into its chaos. She was studying a recipe card like it held state secrets, muttering to herself.
“Two and a half cups flour, one teaspoon soda, one teaspoon powder, half teaspoon salt...” She grabbed a measuring cup, plunged it into the flour bag with the precision of someone digging a foxhole.
“You’re packing it,” I said.
She spun around, hand to chest. Flour puffed from her apron. “Jesus, Mary, and Joesph, Mario! Don’t sneak up on people!” Her eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here? And what’s wrong with how I measure flour?”
“Ben sent me. Said you needed help.” I gestured at the flour bag. “And you’re compressing it. Spoon it in, level it off. Pack it like that, and you get dense cupcakes.”
She stared at me, the one-cup measure of packed flour in her hand. Her expression mixed annoyance and disbelief. “You’re critiquing my flour technique?”
“Baking is chemistry. Exact measurements equal predictable reactions.” I moved to the sink, washing my hands with methodical precision. “Not interpretive dance.”
She set the measuring cup down with deliberate force. “Interpretive dance? These cupcakes have won three county fair blue ribbons. People drive from two towns over just to taste them. I think I know what I’m doing.”
“Then why are you stress-muttering over a recipe you supposedly know by heart?”
Her cheeks flushed. “I’m not stress-muttering. I’m being thorough.”
“You’re being frantic.” I dried my hands, moved to inspect her setup. “And yourmise en placeis chaos. Where’s your scale?”
“My what?”
“Kitchen scale. For accurate measurements.”
She laughed—short, incredulous. “I don’t need a scale. I’ve been baking since I was Olivia’s age. My grandmother taught me these recipes, and her grandmother taught her. We measure with our hearts, not machines.”
That was it. It was the most unscientific thing I’d ever heard. “Your heart doesn’t understand gluten development. Or leavening ratios. Or thermal dynamics.”
“Oh, my God.” She threw her hands up. “You sound like a robot cookbook. Next you’ll be telling me I need to measure the humidity and barometric pressure.”
“Humidity does affect?—”
