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"You’re welcome." I reach for another box. "Now, which inserts go in these? I’d hate to embarrass myself in front of the family."

She sets the bag in its mug and comes around to check my stack.

"The smaller boxes get the six-cupcake inserts. Those are for the regular orders. The bigger ones are for tonight."

I move them into separate piles, and she slides the right stack toward me before going back to her tray.

At one, she starts a new piping bag, and I clear the empty wrappers from my side of the island. There’s a small bowl of leftover frosting beside her notebook, away from the trays. She marks it EXTRA with a piece of tape after catching me looking at it.

"For me?"

"For the ones I use to check the flavor. Not the three hundred cupcakes leaving here tonight."

"So not for me."

"There’s a whole plate of extras beside it. You can have those."

"I'm going to be a diabetic by the time you move out."

I take a cupcake before she changes her mind and order lunch while she goes back to the lemon ones. When the sandwiches arrive, she says she’ll eat after the next tray.

I pull the tray out of her reach and place the sandwich in front of her. "Eat. We can't afford our fearless leader passing out in the kitchen until we finish."

She looks at the sandwich and then back at me. "You're bossy."

"What do you mean? I haven't even threatened to force-feed you like a baby bird yet. It could get much worse for you if you don't just eat it with your own two hands."

"I can manage." She washes her hands and joins me on the stools, keeping the sandwiches on my side. "Ten minutes."

She eats half before reaching for her phone. A message from Megan’s friend has the pickup name and a request for a few extra empty boxes so guests can take leftovers home. Baylor writes it down, then checks the order total.

She takes another bite, and I tell her about Hunter’s missing room key on the trip. He made three visits to the front desk before finding it inside his skate.

By three thirty, the piping is done. She checks the rows against her list and draws a line through the last flavor. Three lots of a hundred.

"Is that all of them?" I ask.

"All of them." She sets the bag down and flexes her fingers. "Now the helpers can add the decorations and pack. I’ll show them what I want on the first ones."

"Can I take down that tape? I’ll need somewhere to put the boxes."

"No. You can slide it out another six inches."

I look at her.

"For tonight," she adds. "Don’t get excited."

"Too late. This is everything I’ve ever wanted."

She laughs, and I get up to move the stack before she changes her mind. We’ve spent most of the day in here. Boxes, food, her telling me what not to touch. I thought I’d get tired of being given instructions in my own apartment. Instead, I keep finding things that need doing so I don’t have to leave the room.

At ten to four, I pick up the last stack of boxes to move it beside the fridge. My shoulder complains when I straighten, and I switch them to my other hand. Baylor catches the movement.

"You should’ve asked me to get those."

"They’re empty boxes. I’m not moving your mixer."

"You still made a face."