as ours at the panadería—at least one thing’s familiar. I know the ingredients for Abuela’s pound cake by heart, but I still check the recipe app on my phone to make sure I correctly convert the measurements to feed a crowd.
But an iPhone in my palm instead of my pocket means Instagram beams, right there in front of me. Maybe it’s jet lag, maybe it’s Polly weariness, but I can’t resist one, teeny-tiny look before I preheat.
My feed usually opens with a baking or cooking account, but not today. Stefanie’s bright smile greets me as she poses in front of the University of Ghana, her blond ponytail slung over one shoulder. Her arms are spread wide in wonder and she looks… happy. Without me. And more, she had internet access and still didn’t reach out. Even just to say she was okay.
The stir of disappointment and regret kicks me right on to another page I vowed to avoid: Andrés Millan. And there he is, grinning in a new profile picture by the sparkling canal backing his Coral Gables home. I expand it briefly—olive tan skin and lean muscle and the short, dark buzz cut that always looked best. And still does. I have to minimize him again.
After a week, there’s no new picture update, but a scan down his profile glazes my stomach with sick. It’s just… gone. Andrés deleted one of my favorite selfies of him and me. Other pictures of me remain, but the one of us, waterside at Coconut Grove for his birthday dinner? Poof.
Why did I even look? I click back to the recipe app, but our last conversation echoes:
It’s not about love. I need to figure myself out and see who I am.
Andrés’s parting words sting again like new wounds. Who he is now is a boy who’s slowly deleting me from the pictorial record of his life.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, I’ve got batter in my mixing bowl, multiplied to the correct proportions. Accounting whiz Pilar feasts on all the math I avoid daily, but recipe math is a must for me. And this recipe’s ready to show the Owl and Crow kitchen monarch a thing or two about what a girl from a “little Cuban place” can do. Four loaf pans are greased and waiting. Now for one last touch.
A harsh rumble sounds while I’m searching the pantry for almond extract. It’s either a mutant lawn mower or a motorcycle with the engine version of a head cold. Moments later, I peek from the pantry to see a raindrop-sprinkled guy, about my age, in my kitchen—er, Polly’s kitchen. A white carry box that wasn’t there before rests on the counter. Before I can even think hello, the guy marches up to the wooden prep island, dips one finger into my batter bowl, and licks.
I launch myself from the doorway. “What the hell are you doing?”
He flinches.
“Your finger! My bowl!”
“Oh. Sorry.” Yeah, not even a teaspoon of sorry fills his six-foot-something frame as he leans against the counter. Blond hair—a dark variety his creator dyed in a murky rain puddle—curls slightly on top of a cropped cut. He’s wearing faded jeans and a brown leather bomber jacket.
“We’ve not met.” He springs off the counter but whatever’s on my face has him inching back his offered hand. “Orion Maxwell.”
I don’t want his name. I want his blood sprinkled over Spencer’s topiary hedges for his indiscretion. But I still grumble out, “Lila Reyes.” I tip my head to the bowl. “And that’s for guests. What if that was meringue prep? Even two drops of water from your finger would ruin it.”
“Is it for a meringue?” He waggles his brows. “My favorite.”
“No, it’s not meringue. And your hands. You rode over here on a dirty motorcycle.”
Orion nods toward the sink and wiggles his fingers. “Washed them before I sampled. Always do.”
“You mean you do this often?” I’m a telenovela of gestures. “Just go around sticking your fingers into people’s batters whenever you want?”
He steps closer, so close I note storm blue eyes and a tiny cleft in his chin and the knife edge shape to his nose. He smells like trees and damp leather. “Only if invited.”
“I don’t remember issuing an invitation.”
“I realize that now,” he says. “I do apologize. It’s a habit. Polly’s always encouraged my sampling.”
Dramatic snort. “I’ll believe that when—”
“Orion. There you are, dear.” Polly all but levitates, floating from the swing door to Orion’s side. “Our canisters are down to dregs and fumes.”
He