I peer over at him and catch a faint smirk on his face. “You said I needed to taste test them for you.”
“Yes, I did. But they’re also going to rock your world with their flavor, so eat up and then spill your heart out to me.”
His smile falters. I watch his Adam's apple move as he swallows hard, and I wonder what I said to cause such an obscure expression to wash over his face. He reaches over, taking a cookie, then brings it to his mouth slowly.
“Cookie first, and then we’ll see.”
I chuckle, placing another cookie onto the pan, double-checking to make sure I have the oven still on and ready for this second batch. I grab my phone, snapping a few photos of my finished product, sending them to Grayson so she can see how the cookies turned out. I will be delivering them to her in the morning. I love that she gives me free rein of what baked goods I want to make for her to display at The Groovy Bean.
“What’s that smile for?” he asks through a mouthful.
“I just love my job, is all. And I love this song!” I add, turning up the music a few notches to listen to “Return of the Mack” by Mark Morrisona little louder.
I bob to the music, singing to the lyrics, as I clean up my mess. Luke takes a second cookie and inspects it for a moment.He looks over at me like he wants to say something but doesn’t know if he should.
Panic stabs me in the gut as I start to wonder if my cookies aren’t as delectable as I had originally thought, and I try to mentally prepare myself for his constructive criticism. I care a lot about what people think of my products, because my business depends on their opinions. When it comes to Luke, I care about his opinion most of all.
“These are fantastic,” he says, and I watch him closely, searching for a lie within his dark eyes as he looks up at me. “I’m not lying. These are really good. I just had an idea.”
“What is it?” I ask, bouncing on my feet nervously.
He chuckles under his breath, clearly loving how fidgety I’m being right now. “I had a thought about something that could make the flavor pop even more—not that they need it. I just remembered those snickerdoodles you made last week and what made me love them so much. What if you added that cinnamon-sugar on top after adding the icing?”
I mull it over for a second, willing to give it a try, and am quick to take action. I rush over to my cabinet, grab my organic cane sugar and organic cinnamon spice, then get to work on adding them to the cookies I have placed on the pan. Luke comes up behind me, looking over my shoulder as I get to work.
The heat from his breath hits my ear, sending a swirl of tingles down my neck, settling into my shoulders. I fight off a shudder, placing my focus on what I’m doing rather than how his chest brushes against my arm.
“I’m assuming you liked my idea?” he asks, his breath now hot on the back of my neck, and I unintentionally squish the cookie dough in my hands. He laughs, whispering an apology, before backing away.
“It’s worth giving it a try to see how we like them.”
He offers an approving hum before making his way around my kitchen, grabbing all my dirty dishes. No matter how many times I protest, telling him I can get them later, he still insists onwashing my dishes for me. I’m thankful for it because doing the dishes is my least favorite thing about this job, even if it’s just rinsing them off and shoving them into a dishwasher.
“Thank you,” I say after he’s finished and the next batch of cookies are in the oven.
“Happy to help.” He gives me a warm smile.
I’m glad to see that his mood has started to lift. I want to keep chipping away at the weight he carries on his shoulders. Luke tends to keep his troubles bottled up inside, which can only cause more problems. It’s good for people to talk through their thoughts—even the dark ones.
I wave for him to follow me to the couch. I sit down, cautiously, so that I don’t wake up Buttercream. I accidentally woke him up this morning, and he almost scratched me before running off to who knows where.
Buttercream practically melts into Luke’s arms as he swoops the sleeping cat up and snuggles him. I give Luke the stink eye, envious of his bond with our cat. “Since when did you become a cat whisperer?”
“Since I saved this little guy’s life.”
Well, now I’m in a melted puddle.
We sit in silence for a moment, him holding Buttercream in his arms, while I keep trying to sneak pets in before the cat sees me and starts hissing. Luke laughs each time, and I’m close to telling him to take the mean feline to his house, but I don’t because of how happy and content he looks right now.
“Luke,” I say, grabbing his attention. “Will you tell me what’s been bothering you lately?”
His eyes lose a bit of their light. His throat bobs in a swallow, and my gaze dips to track the movement, cataloging the sharp line of his jaw, the fullness of his lower lip.
“My dad called the station yesterday.” He moves his gaze to my hardwood floors.
I hum, putting the pieces together, understanding why he seems so tense. “You’ve not talked to him since…” I let the question fade between us, knowing the answer already, but I wait for him to answer.
“Since I ran him out of town. I never expected to hear back from him—or at least, I had hoped I wouldn’t.”
