Elliot

Eight

One of the activities that we have planned for the club was trying out French foods. And I was excited for it because I know for sure that I'd be able to try new things without worrying about anything.

But how fucking wrong I was.

We have to fucking make the fucking food and I fucking suck at fucking cooking and baking.

We were divided by pairs, and each pair would make a food—or dish, whatever the hell you call it—that can be easily determined as French or that can be commonly identified as a french food.

And I just got the most perfect partner that I could ever fucking have. "So I just keep bumping into you, huh?" I scoffed, my arms crossed, staring at the french guy in front of me.

He shrugged. "Seems like fate's doing his job nicely."

"Yeah?" I smirked. "You think so?"

"Certain, darling."

"We better not waste time then, love."

Tobias was going to shoot back when Manta, again, prevented him from doing so. He gave me a paper that contained the food that we're going to do, it has the ingredients and procedures and other stuff and—holy shit. The world did just love me in every possible way. "Great," I muttered under my breath.

"What's the problem?" Tobias asked.

I raised the paper. "Baking."

"That's a problem to you?"

"Yes."

"Why?" He waited for an answer but I didn't give one. I just stared. Then he said, "Oh, you suck at baking."

"And I hate baking."

Tobias shrugged. "I could teach you," he said.

"You know how to bake?"

"'Course I do." He scoffed. "I'm French."

"Is baking like a french thing or you're just being a cocky little bastard who probably has no idea on kitchen shit? 'Cause I don't wanna burn down someone's kitchen."

He smirked. "Sunday, three o'clock sharp. Your house," he said and walked away. "Don't be late."

"Okay, dad." I said. How am I gonna be late in my own house?

So that was the plan right away. And I am truly scared that I'll end up burning down our whole kitchen—or maybe even the house—and Dad would probably send me into a rehab or mental facility to make my mind stable.

That was a lot but it could happen.

The other pairs got more complicated ones than ours, so maybe croissants ain't that bad and I think we could ace making it—plus the fact that I'm partnered with a frisky french dude with weird abilities of making people smile.

Alvin was horrified when I told him about the activity. "You're gonna blow up your whole kitchen!" he said, pressing hardly on the buttons of the controller. "Remember that one time you baked cookies and it turned out looking worse than a cow poop? I couldn't even eat anything just by the sight of that thing."

"Swear my oath to the megatrons, I am so glad that you are my best friend," I said.

"Okay, sorry. I guess that was too much."

I shot him a glare and immediately turned my focus back to the game. "It's alright, Alvin. I'm sure everything would be okay now and all will be handled smoothly." I said. "Besides, my partner is a french guy, so that gives us the advantage."