
Carlos should’ve known agreeing to this class was a bad idea.
He stood at the door of the small culinary studio, watching couples spill in, hand in hand, smiling like they’d walked into a romantic movie montage.
Aprons were tied in bows, fingers laced together, little whispered jokes floating in the warm, buttery air. The instructor wore an offensively cheerful smile and a chef’s hat that screamed I love love.
Carlos, however, stood alone.
His friend who was supposed to come with him...Lando, of course...had texted him two hours ago:
“Sorry mate, I can’t make it. You’ll survive though. You’re charming.”

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