Page 52 of Wish For Me

“I don’t know if I have any wire here,” I say, already walking back to the prep area.

He scoffs. “What kind of pastry chef are you? Who doesn’t carry wire around with them?”

“Well, that’s a relief,” I say as I start rifling through my supply box.

“What’s a relief?”

“That you’re still an asshole. I was getting worried, what with you being so decent for the last few minutes.”

He laughs and I realize that I’m smiling too. “Where’s the fun in being decent all the time?”

“Damn. No wire.”

“I have some upstairs,” he says, and I raise an eyebrow. “What?”

“You brought baking supplies with you? To a hotel in Tennessee?”

He rolls his eyes. “Like you don’t travel with your supplies.”

Okay, he has me there. “Are you going to go and get the wire or are you waiting for a personalized invitation?”

“You’re coming with me,” he says, grabbing my elbow. “If I leave you alone with that cake, I’m going to come back to it covered in another two dozen flowers.”

“Very funny.” But I allow myself to be herded from the room. It’s the strangest thing—for the first time since we were kids, I don’t actually want Peter Dumont to leave me alone.

* * *

Peter has a trulyridiculous amount of supplies in his hotel room. “I thought I was bad,” I mutter, looking at the huge tackle-box like storage container filled with flavor extracts, piping tips, spatulas, and god knows what else.

“You never know when you might be called upon to create a masterpiece.”

I snort and he scowls at me, but it’s lacking its usual heat. A moment later he holds up a spool of wire. “My overpacking is saving your ass.”

“I’d hardly call it saving my ass. You’re the one who said the cake was perfect as is.”

He shrugs. “But think about how much cooler it’s going to be now.”

I can’t argue with that. His idea is a good one. Good enough that I’m willing to go through with it, even knowing that it’s probably going to give him ammunition to hold over my head for the rest of our lives.

“You never told me why you were up so early,” I say as I follow him onto the elevator.

He seems to be focusing extra hard on the buttons, and I wonder if he’s intentionally avoiding looking at me. “I don’t always sleep very well.”

“Does walking help?”

He shrugs. “Baking bread helps. But that’s not really an option in a hotel.”

“Of course you make bread in the middle of the night,” I scoff.

He turns to me as the elevator starts moving. “What does that mean?”

“Bread is boring.”

“And so am I, right?”

I shrug. “If the shoe fits.”

“Let me guess, you make cupcakes when you can’t sleep.”