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Then Levi points toward me.
Theo twists, spots me, and comes running over. “We made hundreds of dollars!” he says, practically glowing. “And everyone said it’s real sugar.”
I laugh despite myself. “Why didn’t you tell me we weren’t supposed to use sugar?”
His smile falters. “I didn’t know. I’ve never been to a bake sale before.”
The small sadness in his voice catches me somewhere soft.
“Oh, sweetheart.” I reach out and smooth a hand over his hair. “It’s not your fault.”
“Jake said Levi’s in trouble with Principal Grover.”
“I think Levi can handle Principal Grover.”
Theo considers that, then seems reassured. “Yeah. He probably could.”
He sits with me for a little while, swinging his legs under the bench as we watch the stall sell out again. Then a group of boys calls his name, and he runs off with his friends, leaving me alone with the strange, warm ache in my chest.
A few minutes later, Levi drops onto the bench beside me. He sits close—too close, really.
“Sold out,” he says. “Made a few hundred, by the looks of it. Some of those people came back three times.”
“I think some of those people came back for reasons that had nothing to do with baked goods.”
He frowns, genuinely confused.
I glance toward Jean’s group, still hovering near the tables. “Never mind.”
His gaze follows mine, and something in his expression hardens. “They say something to you?”
“No.”
“Good. If they gave you shit, I’d have to go slash their tires. Maybe key a few cars while I’m at it.”
A surprised laugh slips out of me before I can stop it.
He’s so strange. Offering that like it’s a perfectly ordinary solution to social discomfort. I know he’s joking though.
I lean toward him the tiniest bit, just enough for my shoulder blade to brush his. He goes very still. I pretend not to notice.
The dark-haired woman from the phone call glances at us, then at my face. Something unfamiliar and slightly dangerous settles in my chest. Not quite smugness, but close.
For all his grumbling and swearing and inappropriate comments, Levi is surprisingly sweet underneath it all. In his own way.
“No more baking for you,” he says. “I can’t control myself around your cooking. I’ll end up with a gut.”
I can’t help but smile.
I love baking. I always have. But Maverick never touched anything with sugar, flour, or dairy unless it had been approved by a nutritionist and portioned into something joyless. He would watch me bake like it was a charming little weakness, then push the plate away and say, “You know I don’t eat that.”
Levi, on the other hand, has eaten five brownies, two cookies, and a piece of lemon drizzle cake while claiming he isn’t big on sweets.
I meet his gaze.
He thumps his chest hard.
“Why do you keep doing that?” I ask.
