Exes and O's (The Influencer, #2)(23)

“He won’t. He’s the definition of a nice guy.”

“Nice guy?”

“Like . . . he’s the kind of guy who answers telemarketing calls and ends up trapped on the phone for an hour because he feels too guilty hanging up.”

“Sounds like a man with no backbone.”

“Anyway, I don’t subscribe to these manipulative play it cool bullshit games. Besides, Brandon knows me. He knows I have feelings, and lots of them.”

Trevor runs his hand over his steel-cut jaw. “Look, all I’m saying is sometimes you can be . . . a little forward.”

“Being forward isn’t a bad thing. Am I supposed to pretend to be mysterious? Like the cool chick who acts like a bro, goes with the flow, and has no emotional needs?”

“I didn’t say that. But you need to ease into it a little before you send him full-screen-length texts.” He hands my phone back.

“I don’t ease into things, Trevor. I go balls to the wall. With everything I do,” I say, standing to match his height.

“Look, do you want to score a second chance or not?” he asks, making his way to my doorway.

“Obviously.”

“Then trust me. Just wait a bit and think out your response properly,” he instructs.

“Wait for how long? You know I have no patience.”

“Just an hour.”

“That might as well be an eternity.”

“Come on. We’ll clean the kitchen while we wait.” When I give him scary eyes, he adds, “We can make cupcakes. I’ll show you how to make them from scratch so you don’t have to waste money buying that boxed crap.”

I raise a brow. “You know how to bake from scratch?”

“Let’s find out,” he says, and I swear there’s a twinkle in his eye.



* * *



? ? ?

AND FOR THAT hour, I forget all about messaging Brandon back.

Turns out, Trevor decided we’re making lemon cupcakes with raspberry icing. He’s not a Parisian pastry chef by any means, and he notes we put too much flour in the batter, but he knows his way around a kitchen. It’s unexpected, and frankly a little unfair.

“These are life-changing,” I say through a mouthful, placing the remainder neatly in a Tupperware container.

“You should send your grandma a picture and tell her they’re from scratch. She’ll be proud.”

I shrug. “I dunno. She thinks the reason I’m still single is because I can’t cook or bake. Do you think that’s true?”

As he loads the dirty dishes into the dishwasher, he chuckles softly. “Tara, this isn’t 1950. And for the record, you can bake. You followed all the directions. I think you just have it in your head that you can’t do it.”

He’s not wrong. When I first started dating Seth, I’d started getting more adventurous in the kitchen, trying different recipes I found on Pinterest just to impress him, even though they included ingredients I didn’t like. But no matter how hard I tried to stretch myself out of my comfort zone, he was unsatisfied with everything I made, claiming the food was too simple. It has no flavor was his favorite thing to say to me when I’d try a new recipe. Eventually, I just stopped trying altogether. I want to explain that to Trevor, but frankly, I’m embarrassed I put up with Seth’s crap for so long.

“Who taught you how to bake?” I ask.

His jaw tightens as he bends down to close the dishwasher. “My grandma.”

“That’s really adorable. Were you close with her?” A grin spreads over my face as I picture a seven-year-old Trevor in a frilly apron, icing cupcakes next to a sweet little white-haired lady.

“I guess so.” I stare at him hopefully, waiting for him to elaborate on his childhood, but he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “We do a lot of cooking and baking at the firehouse too. Learned a lot there.”

“Oh yeah? Like group meals?”

“Yup. We make most meals together every day. One of the guys on my shift used to be a chef in the military, so he takes food pretty seriously. The other day he made homemade ricotta gnocchi with pancetta, and crème br?lée for dessert.”

“Damn. That’s fine dining. Are you guys hiring?” I ask half-jokingly, leaning a hip against the island.

The corner of his mouth tugs upward into a half smile. “We’re always accepting applications. Think you have what it takes? You’d have to be able to lift and carry about two hundred pounds.”

I make a pfft sound. “Easy enough. I’m stronger than I look from hauling around books my whole life,” I lie.

He gestures to himself. “Okay, let’s see. Try lifting me.”

“Like, actually pick you up from the ground?” I squeak.

“Yup. If you’re as strong as you say, it should be no problem.”

It’s an impossible feat for my weakling body. I know this. Surely he knows it too. But something about Trevor brings out my playful side. Putting a smile on his usually stone-serious face has become one of my favorite tasks. And I’m always up for the challenge. Being the cause of those crinkle lines around his eyes and that deep, bellowing laugh gives me a high like no other.

To his amusement, I make a show of cracking my knuckles and bending my knees to loosen my joints, like a senior citizen warming up for tai chi in the park. He sucks in a sharp breath, bracing himself when I wrap my arms around his torso. While his spicy scent is an energy booster, he’s a solid mass of muscle that’s virtually unmovable. I attempt multiple times, even restrategizing the angle, squatting to lift him from under the bum, to no avail.