Page 89 of Passing Ships
“All right,” she says, giving in. “I’ll make a pot of coffee. We’ve got a long night ahead of us. I hope you’re both ready to work.”
Lennon gives me a searing look as I nod, and I know he’s fighting the urge to strangle me.
Jessica leads us to the back of the bakery. The industrial kitchen has stainless steel counters, mixers, and racks of baking supplies, and I can’t help but feel guilty. Everything is spotless. She had just finished and was ready to go home for the night until we came along and messed everything up.
“First things first,” she says, pulling two aprons that say Sunshine & Sugar from a hook. “Put these on, and I’ll get you both a hairnet and gloves.”
I fight the urge to pull out my phone and snap a picture of Lennon. He looks like a large, disgruntled lunch lady.
Once we’re properly attired, she pulls out a massive bag of flour and sets it on the counter. “We need to bake the sponge layers again. Amiya, you begin with the dry ingredients. Lennon, you handle the wet. I’ll get the espresso machine going for the ganache and start making the raspberry coulis.”
I nod, roll up my sleeves, and we get to work.
The sound of flour hitting the metal bowl is oddly soothing, and I fall into a rhythm, measuring and sifting according to Jessica’s instruction as if my life depends on it. Next to me, Lennon is cracking eggs and whisking them into a creamy mixture with sugar and butter.
“This is kind of fun, isn’t it?” I say as he spoons the mixture into the bowl and I fold the batter together.
He gives me a scathing glance. “Sure, if being on a high-stress baking show is your thing.”
“It is. But at least there’s less yelling,” I add.
“For now,” he teases.
Exhaustion begins to creep in, but Jessica keeps us on task, working through the night.
Hours pass in a blur of flour and frosting. We bake the layers, carefully stack them, and level them off with precision. There’s no room for mistakes this time. Lennon and I work like a well-oiled machine, moving in sync as we navigate the narrow space of the kitchen.
At one point, I catch him staring at me as I smooth a new layer of buttercream over the lemon poppy seed sponge.
I raise an eyebrow, my lips quirking up in a smirk. “What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he replies. “Just admiring your work.”
I laugh softly. “Is that so? Or are you just distracted by the fact that I’m covered in frosting?”
He glances down to where streaks of frosting decorate my arms, my neck, and even my hairnet.
“I can help you with that,” he says as he licks his lip.
I playfully swat at him with a frosting-covered spatula, leaving a smear of vanilla buttercream on his cheek.
“Hey!” he protests.
“Don’t worry, Sailor. I’ll clean it off later.”
“Oh, I know you will. You owe me.”
I stop and glare at him. “How do you figure that?”
He shrugs. “You’re the one who volunteered us to pick the cake up, and you’re the one who told Jessica we’d pay triple for the cake, and you’re the one who volunteered us to help her bake. I’d say you owe me big time. And I plan to collect.”
The tension that sat between us earlier at the rehearsal dinner has melted away, replaced by something … more.
Jessica interrupts our moment with a gentle cough, and we snap back to reality.
“All right, lovebirds,” she says with a knowing smile, “let’s focus. We’re in the home stretch.”
I feel my face heat up at her comment, but we get back to work, determined to finish.