Page 6 of If Tomorrow Never Comes

“Huh. That’s a good question.” His tongue pushed against his cheek. “I can drink or eat anything cold without getting a brain freeze. Chugging slushies was my eighth-grade party trick.”

“Wow, did that get you all the girls?”

“Not a one.”

She laughed, and the way he looked at her made her feel as if he thought making her smile was the best thing he’d ever done. Her stomach tightened at the same time her brain warned her to tread carefully.

“What’s yours?” he asked.

“I can fold a fitted sheet so well you can’t tell it apart from a flat one.”

His jaw dropped. “How?”

“Come on, Baseball Guy. You should know practice makes perfect.”

“While I’m impressed with you, I’m not sure I care enough about that to perfect it.”

“I don’t blame you—most people don’t.” He didn’t need to know the time she’d had on her hands over the years.

She learned they both loved to read, his favorite author was Andy Weir, and he had a yellow Lab. She told him about her parents’ German shepherd and how jealous her dad had been when Dodger suddenly switched allegiance and chose her as the family favorite. He still wasn’t over it, and she teased him every chance she got. They talked about running, which, when she felt up to it, was her favorite method of stress relief.

In a stroke of good luck, Jamie asked what she did for a living just as they arrived at their destination, and she’d gotten away with a vague reply about working on her degree in graphic design.

Any concerns he might ask more about her life disappeared after they arrived and received their public reprimand. Jamie didn’t seem fazed and slipped on the sole remaining apron—a pink number with an obnoxiously loud floral print—without batting an eye. He tied the strings behind his back as they walked to their assigned station, briskly rubbed his hands together, and took a deep breath.

“Okay. We’re already behind, but we can do this.” With a straight face and sudden intensity that seemed more appropriate for a contestant in the final round ofThe Great British Bake Off, he pointed to the open shelves beneath the counter. “Grab the sugar, bowls, and measuring cups while I read through the recipe. My sister taught me to always read the whole thing and measure all ingredients before you start. Be prepared, pay attention. No Rachael Ray shenanigans.”

Elliott knelt down to follow his request. “No Rachael Ray what, now?”

“You know. No estimating ingredients.” He trailed his finger along the page as he read, gripping his chin with the other hand. “She just pours stuff in without measuring, like she can eyeball a quartertablespoon or half cup exactly. It’s a recipe for disaster, especially when baking. Precision is nonnegotiable.”

“Wow.” Elliott hugged the bowls to her chest and rocked back on her heels.

“What?”

“Recipe pun aside, you’re taking this super serious.”

He jerked his head toward her, glasses askew. “Baking is serious business.”

She tucked her lips between her teeth. God, he was cute.

He dropped his head forward with a sigh. “I should kill my sister for doing this to me.”

“She’s like this, too?”

“Worse.”

That was terrifying.

She gathered the rest of the things he’d asked for, lining up all the bowls, measuring cups, and spoons by size in descending order.

“Preheat the oven to three fifty,” he ordered. Then, as if he heard himself, sheepishly added, “Please.”

“What would you do if I told you that when I make ready-to-bake sugar cookies, I put them in while it’s still preheating?”

Jamie gasped.

“Thought you’d say that.”

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