Page 15 of Can't Kiss the Chef

I’m about to remind him of all his friends who are professional athletes, but before I get the chance, our teacher clears her throat to get our attention.

“Hello, class. I’m going to just get right into it.”

No pleasantries. I’m going to like her.

“My name is Chef Stroll.” She picks a notebook up from her desk.

“We don’t always get to pick who we work with, and I believe that learning to work with others is essential no matter what career you choose. So I will choose your partners and country. I went in alphabetical order so nobody can complain.”

The universe is playing some kind of sick cosmic game with me. My last name is Adams so of course it’s the first name called.

“She will be working with Italian food, and her partner is Byron Andrews.”

I turn to my left. To my dismay, my partner, who I can’t seem to get rid of no matter how hard I try, has a big, goofy grin plastered on his face. This time, I don’t try to hide mine, but I do roll my eyes. I have an image to preserve.

The second I get home from class, I change into biker shorts and an oversized Westvale Retrievers Hockey shirt that I stole from Indy, who stole it from her boyfriend Marcus. I took it because it has a cartoon portrait of Riley, our school’s adorable mascot, on it.

I grab all the ingredients I need to make Mom’s chocolate chip cookies. It reminds me that at one point in time, we did get along. Even if we never get back to that place, I’ll always have this recipe.

I decide to triple the batch. I usually double it because I know Marcus is going to come and eat at least a whole batch by himself, and with Oliver here now, I know I won’t hear the end of it if I don’t make him some.

I feel at home in the kitchen. Everything I need is laid out on the countertop. My current audiobook is playing on the Bluetooth speaker we keep in here.

Baking has always been a passion of mine, my favorite childhood memories are of me, Mom and Penny working through a recipe and Nonna yelling that we aren’t doing it right.

Having a big family that got together often, deserts were a necessity and it was a responsibility we were happy to take on.

Baking became a form of therapy after the first time I disappointed my parents. I had the great idea of piercing second holes in my ears after watchingThe Parent Trapat a sleepover. Not only were my parents mad that I didn’t ask their permission to “put holes in my head,” but I also got a whole lecture about how unsanitary it is and what could have happened if they got infected.

That’s the moment our relationship changed and I realized baking banana bread could make me feel better.

I’m sliding the first batch of cookies into the oven when Indy walks in from the gym.

“What are we making?” she asks, peeking over my shoulder.

“Chocolate chip cookies, and before you ask, yes, I made Marcus his own batch.”

Indy releases her breath like it would have been a life or death situation if I didn’t make her boyfriend his cookies.

“Marcus will be here any minute, and you know he becomes a cookie monster if you don’t make enough for him.”

I love Marcus, I really do. He and Indy are so good together, but if I have to hear him whine about not having enough food, I may kill him.

“Why are you baking?”

“No reason.”

“You never bake for no reason.”

“Sometimes I do.”

We lock into a stare down. I try to avoid her eyes as I change out the trays. I make the mistake of looking up hoping that she left the room.

“I have a class with Byron this semester,” I tell her. “We got paired to work on a semester-long project together.”

Indy scrunches her nose. “That’s rough, Lo. How are you feeling?”

“I knew I was going to have to see him with how intertwined our friend groups have become, but this just feels like such a cruel and unusual punishment.”

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