Craft (The Gibson Boys 2)

“My ma cooks,” Brandon calls out from the corner. “You have to get out all your ingredients first.”

“That did not start with ‘Mr. Gibson,’ Brandon.”

“I’m trying to be helpful,” he contends.

“Doing the history assignment I gave you today would be helpful.”

He rolls his eyes, but goes back to the paper in front of him.

Ollie fumbles his way around the little island, checking the index card and pulling various items from the drawers and mini-fridge. Next, he goes to the cabinets and pulls out measuring cups and spoons.

I hop up on the counter, pretty certain this sort of thing is against the health department codes, and watch him try to figure out what to do.

“First step,” he says, running a finger down the card, “is creaming.”

“That’s what she said!” Brandon shouts from across the room.

I look at Brandon with a sigh. “Really?”

“Mr. Gibson, that was funny as hell,” Brandon laughs. “He walked right into that one.”

“Just do your work,” I tell him. “Focus.”

Ollie goes back to work, digging around under the sink until he finds the stand-up mixer. He lugs it to the counter. He then searches in the drawers for the paddles.

Silverware clamor together as he makes the simple task sound like a bull in a china shop. Brandon starts to comment on it, but wisely refrains and goes back to what is most likely drawing inappropriate images on his notepad.

Ollie pounds around for a while longer until the paddles are snapped into the mixer. He drops the butter into the bowl and plugs it in. Nothing happens. “Mr. Gibson? Do you know how to turn this thing on?”

Hopping off the counter, I head his way. “I’m not supposed to help you, but that thing should’ve come with an owner’s manual.”

“It probably did,” he shrugs. “And we were probably taught how to use it in class.”

This straddles my teacher conscience. Thinking it over quickly, I turn to him. “Ollie, do you have any plans to go into baking?”

“No.”

“Cooking? Chef school—culinary school?”

“Um, no.”

That’s enough for me. I search the thing all over and can’t find the switch. Next thing I know, Brandon is at my side looking too.

“How can it be this complicated?” I mutter. “Didn’t either of you pay attention in class?”

“No,” the say in unison.

“This is ridiculous,” I sigh. “Look, people made cakes long before they had mixers. Read the instructions. Does it explicitly say you have to use the mixer? Or can we get out of this on a technicality?”

“Beat in the mixer on medium-to-medium high for three to four minutes,” Ollie reads.

“Naturally,” I groan.

Brandon lifts the cord and the red light on the front of the machine turns on. “It was right here,” he says proudly.

“I wondered how many of you it would take to get that thing on.” Mariah’s voice rings from the doorway.

My head snaps in that direction to see her leaning against the door jamb, a coy little smile on her lips. Her bag is hanging at her side, her hair falling around her shoulders. I wonder if this is how she looks coming home after working all day. That thought gets shoved right out of my mind for all of our sake.

“This is unnecessary,” I say, knocking the top of the machine with the back of my hand. “Just another overpriced gadget.”

“Like the stereo system in your car?” She shoves away from the door and struts into the room.

“No, not like my stereo system,” I say, looking at the boys like she’s crazy. They laugh. “What are you doing here anyway?”

“It looks like Ollie needs help.” She drops her bag at the station next to us. “What are you working on?”

“Hey. He’s supposed to do that on his own.” I shake my head at her.

“I’m not doing it for him, but I think I’ll supervise. You know, since it took three of you to turn on the mixer.”

She tosses me a wink before turning back to the students. “Chocolate cake?”

“I haven’t had chocolate cake in forever,” Ollie sighs. “This is a butter cake recipe. Can we make it chocolate?”

They all look at me.

“Talk to the supervisor.” I throw my hands up before hopping back up on the counter.

Mariah moves effortlessly around the kitchen, giving Ollie tips and chatting with the boys while she takes inventory on what’s already out and what’s yet to be done. They laugh at her jokes and lend her a hand when she tries to reach the vanilla from the top of the cabinet above the sink.

There is a bundle of papers I need to sort in my briefcase—a stack I planned on going through while Ollie made his cake. If it were just him making the cake, maybe I would. But there’s no way I can take my eyes off her.

“Add your sugar and get it creaming,” Mariah says, pushing her sleeves up.