“Oh, and here he is!” Church calls out, smiling big.

I move hesitantly into the room and find myself under Mr. Johansen's intense scrutiny.

“Your friends tell me you’d like to help with the charity baking auction?” he starts, and I just gape at him. Me? Enter a baking auction? That's laughable. I can't bake to save my own life.

“Um, no?” I start, but he's already patting me on the head and smiling. Clearly, Mr. Johansen's hearing aid isn't working at the moment.

“Excellent! We’ll need your entry by eight am tomorrow morning. Normally, we don’t take such late entries, but your friends have adamantly spoken up on your behalf. This auction is a yearly tradition and reflects heavily on the school’s reputation and its students—not to mention the new headmaster.” Mr. Johansen waggles his caterpillar-like gray brows at me, and my stomach drops. “Generous donors bid handsomely on these goods, and all proceeds go to benefit the children’s hospital. Don’t let us down, son.” Mr. Johansen clamps me on the shoulder, and gives it a good squeeze.

He’s out the door before I can even find the right words to respond.

“You dickhead!” I snap, giving Micah and Tobias a pleading look as they move into the room behind me. They know my secret now, so surely …

“We thought you’d like to contribute to charity,” they say together, grinning like maniacs.

“You guys know I can’t bake worth shit!” I’m panicking now. Will Dad let me take his car into Nutmeg, so I can grab an instant cake mix or something? “You’re going to help me, right?”

“Not a chance,” Church purrs, tapping his fingers on the side of his to-go coffee cup. “Have fun, Mr. Carson. The official Culinary Club meeting is cancelled today, so you can have the kitchen all to yourself.” He moves around me, knocking me out of the way as he passes. I scowl at him, giving the twins a serious stare-down as they pass, but they just chuckle like it’s all a big game.

Spencer pauses next to me for a moment before patting me patronizingly on the head.

“Good luck, Chuck,” he says, before sauntering out of the room.

Now it’s just me and Ranger in here.

“If I leave you here, are you going to burn the place down?” he asks me as a bead of sweat trails down the side of my face. Legit. I am sweating bullets right now. I mean, I can get a recipe book and follow instructions, but ... a cake worthy of an auction? This is some cruel punishment right here.

“Maybe,” I say, getting my phone and searching YouTube for how to make an easy cake. If I follow step-by-step instructions in a video, I should be fine. Right?

Ranger reaches out and plucks my phone from my hand. For a moment, I panic when I think he might smash it again, but all he does is chuck it on the second large island behind him.

“You need an apron,” he tells me, moving over to one of the tall cabinets and opening it. There are a ton of aprons in there, but only a few cute, frilly ones like he usually wears. He puts himself in a white apron with a red cherry print, and offers up a pink one with hearts all over it to me.

I reach out for it, sling the strap over my head and let the straps hang. Ranger rolls his eyes and curses under his breath the way he did when he finally gave in and helped me find my glasses that night.

“Helpless idiot,” he murmurs, turning me around with his hands on my shoulders and tugging the straps tight. My breath catches, and I hope he doesn't notice the curve in my waist too much. “Okay, do what I say and we might actually have a presentable cake.”

“Why are you helping me?” I ask, and Ranger scowls, pointing at one of the lower cabinets.

“Just get the pastel-colored ceramic mixing bowls from down there, and I'll work on the pans.” Ranger sighs as he fusses around in a drawer, and I do what he's asked. “I'm not helping you by the way. It's just ... baking is kind of my thing. I can't stand to see it fucked up, not when I could step in and help. Besides, that auction earns a ton of money for the kids.”

“Or the rich asswads betting on cakes could simply, you know, donate without having to flash their wealth around in each other's faces in some sort of my-dick-is-bigger-than-yours competition.”

Ranger's mouth twitches, but then, he's the offspring of those same said rich dicks, so I'm surprised when he ends up smiling. It only lasts a second, and then he's ordering me around again.

“What sort of cake are we making?” I ask, picking up a can of cherry cola and wrinkling my nose.

“Chocolate cherry cola cake,” Ranger says, popping a maraschino cherry between his lips. “It's not fancy, but the bidders don't all want fancy at the auction; they're rich, they can get fancy cakes whenever they want. Sometimes, simple and nostalgic, with a touch of homemade Americana is best.”

“So ... giving the rich toilet-paper-wads a taste of the middle class?” Ranger gives me a look.

“Toiler-paper-wads, huh? That's ... an interesting insult. You're strange as hell, Chuck.” Ranger watches me for a moment, and then points at the flour. “Now start whisking together the dry goods: sugar, flour, cocoa, dry milk, salt, baking powder and baking soda. I'll take care of the wet stuff,” he says, and my entire body goes hot at the word wet passing between his lips. “The oil, eggs, and vanilla. After that, we'll combine the two bowls. Takes about fifty strokes to make it nice and smooth.”

Wow.

Has baking always sounded so damn sexual?!

I find myself breathing a little harder as I pick up a measuring cup.

“How much flour?” I ask, and Ranger pauses, like he hadn't thought of that before.

“Fuck. I don't measure shit, I just ... Shit.” He reaches up to ruffle his blue-streaked black hair and then pauses to rinse his hands. “Okay, let's just do this together.”

He comes up behind me, and I forget to breathe for a whole minute as he takes my hand and uses one of the measuring cups to scoop white flour from the sack into the bowl. My heart is thundering, and I can feel him pressed close against my me. If ... he knew I was a girl, this might be a very different scenario.

We finish up mixing both the dry and the ... wet ingredients in different bowls, and then pouring them together.

“Let me show you how to beat it properly,” he says, and then we both pause and Ranger laughs, this smooth, dark sound that works its way into all the crevices of my brain. Why are all these Student Council pieces of shit so hot and swoon-worthy? I have a weakness for cute boys, remember? “The cake, I mean. You’re a dude, so I’m sure you know to beat other stuff just fine.” He chuckles again, and the sound is so warm and inviting, I have to suppress a small flutter of butterflies.

Cody, Cody, Cody, I tell myself, but then Ranger's grabbing my wrist and showing me how to whisk, his fingers firm but not overbearing, his touch scalding.

It's a relief when we finally get the cake in the oven, and I can put some space between us.

Ranger leans against the counter near the giant, industrial fridge and watches me with narrowed eyes. He looks ... I don't want to say cute in his apron, but really, cute is the first word that comes to mind.

“So what's so great about California?” he asks, making it sound like a dirty word. “I thought it was hot and expensive and prone to natural disasters?”