By the Book

Chapter Seventeen: The Weight of Words

The morning air was crisp and bright, the rain finally giving way to a rare November sun that warmed the sidewalks just enough to keep the frost at bay. I wrapped my coat tighter around me as I made my way to the café, my bag slung over one shoulder and a folded recipe tucked neatly inside. The city felt quieter today, with most people still in bed or gearing up for Thanksgiving plans.

When I reached the café, the blinds were half-drawn, and the bell overhead chimed softly as I stepped inside. The familiar scent of coffee and warm spices greeted me, though the place felt oddly intimate without the usual hum of customers.

Miles was already there, standing behind the counter in a worn navy hoodie and jeans, a far cry from his usual henley and apron. He looked up as I entered, a grin breaking across his face. "Morning, Donovan. Ready to ruin your mum's kitchen standards?"

I smirked, hanging my coat on the nearest chair. "If we're baking anything with the normal amount of sugar you serve in here, my mom might disown me."

"Not a chance," he replied, waving a hand dismissively. "I'm banking on this dessert to win her over. Your dad, too. Maybe even your neighbors, if we make extra. Do you think the lawyer likes dessert? Or is he too much of a square?"

I rolled my eyes, setting my bag on the counter and pulling out the recipe. "The lawyer is irrelevant. This is about not embarrassing myself—or you—in front of my mom. Keep your focus."

Miles's grin widened as he leaned casually against the counter, clearly pleased with himself. "Harsh. And here I thought this was about teamwork. I bring the charm, you bring the talent. Together, we dazzle your mum into loving me."

"Bold of you to think I'm taking the sous-chef role," I shot back, smirking. "I've seen you handle a piping bag, and it's almost too perfect. No one needs that kind of pressure."

"Perfection is the goal," he quipped, grabbing an apron from a hook and tossing it over his head in one practiced motion. "Now, are we going to bake or just admire my talent?"

"Let's bake," I replied, tying my own apron. "And don't get cocky. My mom's standards are practically mythical."

"Good thing I like a challenge," he said, heading into the kitchen. "C'mon, Donovan. Show me what you've got."

The café's kitchen was spotless and organized, its usual efficiency heightened by the absence of staff. Ingredients were already prepped and portioned, laid out neatly on the counters in labeled containers.

"You prepped everything?" I asked, a bit surprised.

"I always prep," he said, rolling up his sleeves. "The key to a flawless bake is being ready before the chaos starts."

I gave a low whistle. "Alright, Gordon Ramsay. Let's see if your prep skills hold up under fire."

Miles smirked, nudging a mixing bowl toward me. "Let's see if your mum's favorite pumpkin cheesecake is as complicated as you make it sound."

"First of all, it's my mom's secret favorite," I corrected, grabbing the whisk. "She claims she prefers pie, but she'll never turn down cheesecake. Second, it's not complicated. You just have to get the texture right."

"Texture," he repeated with mock seriousness, measuring out the cream cheese. "Got it. If I mess this up, you'll never forgive me."

"Glad we're on the same page," I said, meeting his gaze with a mock-serious look of my own.

We fell into an easy rhythm, trading tasks and teasing as we worked. Miles had a natural grace in the kitchen, his movements quick and precise, but he made a point to exaggerate every time he handed me a tool.