Page 32 of Offside Rules

"I wish I was. It was his bathroom that flooded. He offered the kitchen, and I got temporary approval this morning."

"Baylor, no. You can’t be serious."

"Where do you want me to bake?"

"We’ll find somewhere. I’ll pay for it."

"You’re on the road. I’m standing in an approved kitchen with orders to finish. I can’t spend another day calling places." I stop before I turn it into an argument. "It’s six weeks. I’m not moving in. I bring my supplies up, bake, and go back downstairs."

"You don’t know what he’s like."

"I remember the same game you do."

"Then why are you there?"

I look at the cooling cupcakes.

"Because I need to keep working. Ellie squeezed me in last night, but her staff needs the space. I’m not asking them to give up their orders for mine."

Beau exhales into the phone. "I don’t like this."

"I didn’t think you would. I wanted you to hear it from me."

"Does Mom know?"

"Not yet. I just got the approval."

"Just be careful, Baylor. He’s a cocky asshole who thinks he’s God’s gift to hockey, not to mention he’s a player. Don’t trust him."

When we hang up, I look down the hall even though Wolf is gone. There’s no reason to feel guilty. I needed a kitchen, and he offered one. Beau doesn’t have to like it. I just wish I could get through one day without disappointing somebody while trying to keep my business open.

I set the phone down and open the drawer beside me. The measuring cups are right where I put them, and I reach for the one I need without having to think about it.

I was supposed to be keeping everything in the bins.

I look at the open drawer, then shut it with my hip and go back to measuring the flour. I’m not digging through a box every time I need a quarter cup just to prove a point.

I’ll pack it up when my kitchen’s done. Right now, I have thirty-six cupcakes to frost, another batch to put in the oven, and today’s truck stock waiting for the lunch rush.

I’m back in business.

Chapter Six

Baylor

Wolf has been home for twelve hours, and he’s already moved my tape.

Not all of it. Just the piece dividing the island, which now gives him an extra six inches of counter. Apparently, three away games have made him forget how boundaries work.

I put down the box I’m folding and look at him across the kitchen. He’s standing at the stove with a spatula in one hand and a plate in the other, fully dressed and making breakfast. The shirt part has improved. The rest still needs work.

"Did the tape move itself?" I ask.

He looks at the island, then back at me. "It was peeling."

"So you put it back in a different place?"

"I put it where it would stick." He turns an egg, watching the pan instead of me. "You weren’t using that part."