From Scratch by Rachel Goodman Read Free Book Online Page B

I’d commented that it was the best devil’s food cake I’d ever tasted, even though Nick accidentally confused the measurements for the sugar and the salt and put four extra eggs into the batter. My nine-year-old heart couldn’t bear to tell him I’d gagged down my slice.
    “Come on. Making a cake isn’t that hard,” Nick said. “I mix together the ingredients, pour them into a pan, and throw the whole thing in the oven. Voilà. Out comes the best carrot cake in the world.”
    My “Yeah, right” expression said otherwise. But I let him have his fun anyway, laughing in unabashed amusement as Nick fumbled about the kitchen, baking powder and egg yolks sticking to his skin. I hoped it’d get his mind off the argument he’d had with his parents. Nick was starting at SMU in the fall, where he wanted to pursue a degree in music composition. Charlotte and Dr. Preston had other ideas. Either Nick majored in biology or he would be cut off financially. Medical schools would never consider an applicant with a liberal arts background. He was eighteen, not some foolish child living in a fantasyland, and he needed to be serious, concentrate on his future. No more late nights playing that stupid guitar at the Prickly Pear. No more hanging around Turner’s Greasy Spoons with some misfit girl stuck on a dead-end path.
    Once the ingredients were dumped into the stand mixer, Nick scraped down the sides of the bowl with a spatula and secured the whisk attachment. He turned on the mixer and flipped it to the fastest whipping speed. Immediately, batter erupted out of the bowl. Springing into action, I grabbed the power cord and yanked it from the outlet before more damage could be done.
    Too late.
    Batter was splattered everywhere—on the cabinets, the tile backsplash, the stovetop. Large blobs of it dripped off the counter and were landing in soupy puddles on the floor. When my gaze locked on Nick, I burst into giggles. I couldn’t help it. He was coated in it.
    Nick only stood there, a stunned expression on his face. Finally, he shook his head and said, “That was not supposed to happen.” He pulled his polo shirt over his head, revealing a white cotton undershirt, and tossed it into the sink.
    I threw a dish towel at his chest. “I told you tripling the recipe was a stupid idea. You should have taken my advice—”
    “Your unsolicited advice,” he interjected as he cleaned himself up.
    “Does it matter? At least we would have something to show for it and the kitchen wouldn’t look like a scene from Animal House ,” I said, then dipped my finger into one of the lumpy blobs on the counter and smeared it across his cheek.
    Nick narrowed his eyes. “Wipe it off.”
    “Make me,” I said with a wicked smile.
    “Is that a challenge?”
    “Maybe. What are you going to do about it?” I said, reaching up to spread more batter across his other cheek. Nick captured my wrist, his gaze intense, making my pulse race.
    Then all at once we crashed together, two hormonal magnets colliding. Our mouths connected, and when our lips parted and tongues grazed against each other, I was gone, consumed by him. Nick pulled my waist against his, then lifted me up and placed me on the counter. My fingers curled into his shirtfront, tugging him even closer so that there was no room for a breath between us.
    A car alarm blared somewhere outside, loud and angry, and we broke apart, gasping, our breathing erratic. Nick dropped his head to my shoulder and let out a soft laugh.
    I ran my fingers through his hair and said, “I guess that’s our cue to clean up this mess and finish the cake before my father comes home.”
    Wiggling out of his grasp, I hopped off the counter, readjusted my tank top, and smoothed down my hair. Then I walked over to the counter and found the recipe card so we could get started again.
    Nick followed me. “I say we forget it,” he said, reclaiming my waist, a mischievous grin on his face. Then he took the card from my