Knox looks up from his phone and laughs. “Well, Phoebe just sent a video of Willa after she’s had two cosmos. Turns out my baby mama’s a lightweight.”
He shows us the phone screen and sure enough, Willa is cracking herself up for no apparent reason. Ian’s next to her, baby Rose on his lap. “Looks like little mama’s having a good time. She deserves it.”
“Amen to that,” Knox raises his beer bottle in a toast. “I can’t believe they’re actually moving in tomorrow. For good. Jesus. If this is a dream, don’t wake me.”
“It’s not a dream, but don’t fuck it up,” Ty warns.
“I know. I need to tread lightly; take it slow. But hell, slow has never been my speed.”
“Amen to that,” I joke back, holding my beer bottle up. Just then, my phone buzzes. I check the text, and my face blushes beet red. It’s the alcohol combined with my ruddy Irish skin, and not the fact that Lucy’s texting me, but my guys don’t see it that way.
“Damn, who put that blush on your cheeks, Whit?” Knox teases.
“What? Dude. It’s the beer. I’m not blushing.”
“Protesting a little too much there, Whit,” Ty says, looking over my shoulder. “Shit, Lucy’s texting?”
“Uh, yeah. We’re stepsiblings. We text,” I say lamely, though that’s definitely not how I think of her. She’s never been far from my mind—Lucy is my brain’s version of the perfect woman. But it’s been worse than usual lately. So many dreams, so many mornings waking up hard, sheets a mess, dirty thoughts running through my head. It’s like I’m sixteen all over again.
“What’s she want? Your hot bod?” Knox raises his eyebrows.
“Ha. Not fucking likely. I’m off-limits, remember?” I open her message and see that she’s in full panic mode.
Lucy: You gave me a faulty recipe.
Whit: Whoa, killer. Them’s fightin’ words. What are you talking about?
Lucy: The fact that the white chocolate chip macadamia cookie recipe you gave me is CRAP. I should have known you’d pull something like this.
Whit: So hostile...and that recipe is perfection. Maybe your oven’s fucked up.
Lucy: It’s your mom’s oven. I’m staying here until right before the new year. Our parents are at a holiday party, so I thought I’d whip up a batch, but they look more like pancakes. Did you mess with the measurements?
Whit: Jesus, Luce. It’s not a conspiracy. And no, I did not sabotage the cookie recipe. Good to know you’re paranoid and think the worst of me...
Lucy: I’m sorry. I just wanted to do something nice for your mom—she’s been really sweet to me. But these cookies are a total fail.
Whit: Send me a pic.
I take one look at the screenshot from Lucy and know exactly what her problem is.
My problem is that instead of focusing on the flying saucer cookies in the pic, I’m zeroing my gaze in on her delicate hands, the nails a pretty lavender color, a single gold band on her thumb. I’ll end up in hell for all the times I’ve thought about the way those soft, small hands feel on my cock. But I shake that off. Right now, I’m a baker, not a perv.
Whit: You used softened butter. You were supposed to melt it.
Lucy: But I like soft cookies. Soft butter = soft cookies
Whit: Actually, it doesn’t. It melts faster, making them flat and crispy. When the butter’s already melted, it holds all the ingredients together better and creates the perfect cookie. Do you have enough stuff to make another batch?
Lucy: I think so...hold on. Yeah. I’m a little short on the white chocolate chips. I’m just shy of two cups.
Whit: Is that because you ate them?
Lucy: Are you shaming me?
Whit: Nope. I do the same thing. Those damn things are addictive.
Lucy: Ok, I’m creaming.
