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“After I got cocoa everywhere and over-whipped the first batch of mascarpone.” I huff, and my shoulders drop.

“And you got the second one perfect. The bread has proved well overnight and looks great.”

I shrug, sniffing lightly. “I guess it does look like your bread dough.”

“You got this,” he urges. He swipes a finger down my nose, then boops it lightly. “The next step is to shape the bread dough so it has time for its second rise before we bake it.”

Right. Bake the bread. I wash my hands as I take a moment to breathe and silence the self-doubt. Bry tips the dough onto the floured work surface. With my hands raised, I step in front and stare down at it. Exhaling slowly, I ignore the nervous thoughts promising me that we’re going to screw this up.

I listen intently as Bry instructs on how to fold the dough, my hands moving as he guides me.

“Okay, and now it’s ready to go in here,” he announces, tapping on a cast-iron pot lined with parchment paper.

“And how do I…?”

He smiles wide, eyes dancing with mirth. “You just pick it up and place it in.”

I stare down at the rounded ball, then glance at the pot Bry’s nudged closer.

Please don’t drop it.

Shoulders back, I carefully scoop my hands under the large dough ball and pick it up, then place it slowly into the pot. Bry covers it with the lid and pushes it to the side.

“Okay, that will rest before it goes in the oven. So now we can finish the sauce for the pasta,” Bry advises, then lifts my chin and places a fleeting kiss on my lips. Maybe we should just kiss instead. I seem to be better at that.

Why did I decide to do this again?

“Rosy, this is incredible, thank you,” Noah praises.

His work satchel is still in one hand as he steps closer to the dining table, looking all around at the streamers, balloons, and the banner I’d hung earlier. “I wasn’t expecting anything like this.”

My cheeks heat, and uncertainty swirls through my stomach at his complimentary words. I manage a nod as I glance at the floor. Noah’s always so carefully honest and open with what he says, and I know his gratitude is genuine.

I just don’t…know how to accept it.

None of this was planned for the praise. It was just meant as a way for me to say I care. He was brought into this world thirty years ago today and was raised by wonderful parents who shaped him into the man he is now. I’m so unbelievably blessed to have him in my life. I want him to be reminded of how cherished and loved he is.

Although I hope he likes the thought rather than the execution. Because I have no idea if any of the food is actually going to taste nice. The parts I’ve tried seem okay…but what if something happened between then and now, and all of it tastes terrible?

Maybe I should’ve planned a backup. Or even better, had takeaway delivered.

Shitsticks. That would’ve been a much better idea.

“Well, I helped decorate,” Max jumps in and walks up behind me, resting his chin on the top of my head.

I snort. “You couldn’t even blow up the balloons.”

He tickles my sides, and I twist and shimmy in his grip, giggling loudly.

“Take that back. You just bought stupid balloons. I’m amazing at blowing things…wait, no. Not like that,” he backtracks. His hands fall from my sides, and he frantically waves them, shaking his head.

“Too late.” Nate smirks at him, then claps a hand on Noah’s shoulder and squeezes. “Sit.” Nate nods at me as he dishes up a plate of the rigatoni.

“It’s not my birthday,” I scold lightly, crossing my arms as I glare at him. He can’t always put me first, no matter how much I love it. Today is Noah’s day, not mine.

Noah chuckles whilst he places his satchel on one of the sofas, then comes over and kisses my cheek lightly.

Once we’re all seated, with plates piled high with the tofu rigatoni and slices of toasted garlic sourdough, everyone digs in.