Fake It Till You Bake It(22)

He glanced up. “My mom taught me and my sisters. I took to it more than they did. Do you bake?”

She snorted. “That would be a solid no. I’m a wiz at ordering all kinds of delicious food in restaurants, but that’s as far as my culinary skills extend.”

That line was starting to appear in his forehead again. She’d seen it plenty of times from her parents. Disappointment. Consternation. “But I’m eager to learn,” she quickly added.

He squinted. “Are you? You didn’t seem too eager in your grandmother’s office.”

How much to reveal? She didn’t know this guy, and what she did know didn’t suggest he’d be understanding. “Working here was my grandmother’s idea. I wasn’t prepared to see you.”

He studied her like he knew there was more to the story, but then he nodded like he’d decided not to press. “Let’s get started.”

She braced her legs apart. “What do you want me to do?”

His lips twitched. “Not stand like a linebacker before a play starts, for one. No tackling will be happening in this kitchen, I promise.”

Wait. Did Mr. Uptight have a sense of humor? Nooo, couldn’t be.

He lifted his eyebrows, his lips twitching again. Oh, right. She was still standing like a linebacker. She’d been exposed to just enough football to know a linebacker was a football player, so whatever she was doing at the moment was not right. She was nervous, okay. Sue her. This was a new, weird situation she hadn’t asked to be in.

“Relax,” he said.

Did he read minds, too?

“I’m not going to grade you and send a report card to your grandmother,” he continued, his voice gruff and slightly aggravated. Ahh, that was exactly what she needed to relax. The reappearance of Principal Dell. Earth had returned to its rightful position on its axis.

He handed her the tablet. If she made sure their fingers didn’t touch, well … whatever.

She tapped on the screen a few times to change the font to Comic Sans and enlarge the font to sixteen. Much better. She’d learned numerous ways to compensate for her dyslexia. Her parents had made damn sure of that.

One crisis averted. Now she had to follow the recipe. That was way more terrifying. Her attempts at so-called easy dishes like scrambled eggs or spaghetti always ended up as a runny, yellowy, inedible mess or mushy noodles in burnt sauce—i.e., disaster. It wasn’t her fault her busy (and okay, wealthy) parents had hired a chef. There had been no need for her to learn how to cook.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

Jada hesitated, but she had nothing to be ashamed of. If he acted like an ass, that was on him. “Changing the font. I have dyslexia, and certain fonts really help.”

He nodded. “Oh, okay. If there are any modifications you need, just let me know.”

That was it? “Oh, I should be fine, but thanks for the offer.”

“You’re welcome. Follow my lead,” Donovan said. Guess that was it. It was a bossy command, but he sounded almost … nice.

She gave a brisk salute. “Aye aye, captain. So how many cupcakes do you bake per day?”

“Roughly twelve dozen. It used to be…” His voice trailed off, a discomfited look settling on his face.

“Be what?”

“Nothing.” His tone made it clear he wouldn’t be revealing anything else.

Okay, then. Looked like she wasn’t the only one who had no desire to bare their soul today.

“Wow. Almost a hundred fifty. That’s a lot of cupcakes.” One of the ways she’d learned to cope with dyslexia was a lot of memorization. She could do multiplication tables in her head like nobody’s business.

“We offer the special of the day, along with our basic flavors and a seasonal favorite. At least that’s the goal.” A shadow crossed his handsome features. He rolled his shoulders and sent a clearly forced smile her way. “Let’s get to these cupcakes.”

He handed her a glass mixing bowl identical to the one on the counter in front of him.

“Do you ever improvise?” she asked after he studied the recipe for at least ten seconds like he was committing the steps to memory.

“No, I leave that to Nicholas. I like having a formula to follow.”

Her lips cracked into a smile. “You mean a recipe?”

Despite not knowing him long, she wasn’t surprised by his answer. He struck her as someone who liked logic and order. Someone who was stuck with her illogical and disorderly self for the next few months. No wonder that crease seemed to have taken up permanent residence between his eyebrows. Not that it mattered. She was here to work so she could gain access to her trust fund and, subsequently, full control of her life. Not become besties with him.

He rolled his eyes. “Yes. Whatever. I like knowing if I follow a recipe, the result will be exactly what I want and expect.”

He cracked two eggs into the bowl with precision and minimal movement of his hand and wrist.

Jada took a deep breath. She could do this. She just had to follow exactly what he did.

One tap on the lip of the bowl, two. Crack! The shell split and the yolk splattered on the counter. “Crap!”

The yellow liquid slid in a slow but nonstop blob, spreading across the pristine counter and then down the side. Oh, no. Panic dogged her heels as she spun in a circle, frantically searching for a towel. She spotted a red one and swiped at the mess she’d made. She moaned as more of the yolk slipped over the side in a race to the tiled floor. “I’m so, so sorry.”