Page 20 of Frosting and Flames

He scratches at his clean-shaven jaw. “I think Henry said thirty-five people bought tickets in advance. He usually sells some more at the door, too.”

And they have two griddles?

“Where are the ingredients?”

He lifts a bag from underneath the table. Inside are a few family-size boxes of baking mix and a gallon of water.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

I must be showing too much on my face because he winces. “Is it sacrilegious to use a mix?”

I can’t help the small smile that crosses my lips. “To a baker, kind of. But it’s fine. I’ll make it work.” I root around in thebag. “Is there cooking spray? Butter? Something to coat the griddles?”

He looks apologetic. “This is all Henry gave me.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Okay. The chief said there’d be another cook?”

“Oh. Me.”

Yep. That sounds about right with how my luck is going today.

“What are the other volunteers doing?”

“I think you and your friend are it. We don’t usually get help for these kinds of things.”

Oh, so there wasn’t actually a signup. Jae took it upon herself to make it a thing.

I check my watch. Fifteen minutes until the breakfast starts. This is turning out like one of my stress dreams.

“Does the fire station have a kitchen?”

He nods, leading me back inside. It’s more like a kitchenette with how small it is, but I ask him to pull every mixing bowl, measuring cup, whisk, or spatula he can find while I raid the cabinets looking for anything else that might be useful.

I’m grateful to find a can of cooking spray, as well as a container of ground cinnamon among a random assortment of other spices. I wish there was vanilla extract, but there’s none to be found.

“All right, let’s go.”

I have him mix up the first batch according to the directions on the back of the box and tell him to sprinkle in some of the cinnamon.

“Do you put cinnamon in everything you bake?” he asks, putting it in and whisking away the lumps.

“What?” I ask, half-distracted as I heat the griddles and find two spatulas in the mess of baking equipment we gathered.

“It was in the cookies, too.”

“Oh, no. But it does give a little something special to a plain mix like this.”

“Well, I trust you. You’re the expert.”

I have a brief flashback to a rare Saturday morning I’d had off from the bakery, when Kyle had wanted to make breakfast for us—pancakes, to be exact. I’d looked over the recipe he was using, pointing out that the author likely made a typo, putting a measurement in tablespoons instead of teaspoons. He’d scoffed and told me just because I worked at my parents’ bakery didn’t mean I was some baking prodigy and it was awfully pretentious of me to assume I knew a recipe better than the creator.

I’d stepped back and let him follow it, unsurprised when the pancakes turned out awful, tasting soapy from too much baking soda. He’d then blamed me, saying I should have fixed it.

And here Nick is, taking my advice without a second thought. Admitting I’m an expert in my field. He’d never questioned me when making the cookies, either.

I shake my head. That was weird. Why am I comparing Nick to Kyle?

When the oil’s heated on the griddles, I pour the batter. Ideally, I’d let it rest longer to give the gluten time to relax, but the breakfast starts in only five minutes and we have nothing made.

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