Maybe itisa trauma response.
Great. Now I’m going to be obsessing over my own actions. “At any rate, you looked like you needed a helping hand, and I had some time, so here I am.”
She cradles the now-empty mug in her hands and gives a snotty sniff. “I thought you hated me.”
For some reason, my face gets hot. “I never said that.”
“Oh. Okay.” She toys with her mug and falls silent.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
SIMONE
Ruth-Ann likes me.
As in,likes melikes me.
The realization is startling. All this time, she’s been so damn mean to me, consistently stopping by my stall every day and commenting. I couldn’t figure out why she was so very focused on what I did, and now I’m wondering if this is the equivalent of her pulling on my ponytail to get my attention.
How on Earth did I miss this? I watch her move about in my kitchen, measuring out flour into a big mixing bowl. She won’t look me in the eye, and when she does catch my gaze, she tucks her hair behind her ears and gets a flustered look on her face.
Full and happy, Pluto jumps onto my bed and flops down at my side, purring. He’s warm and too heavy, but I’m just grateful he’s fed and taken care of. I pet him and scratch his tiny bud ears as if that can make up for the last few days of neglect. It’s hard being alone, but it’s even worse when someone—or something—depends on you and you fail them. Poor Pluto. I’m absurdly glad that Ruth-Ann is here, a surge of overwhelming gratitude threatening to make me cry.
Thank goodness she hasn’t noticed.
“I’m making oat cookies for your cart,” she says, not that I asked. “The grain here has a texture a lot like oat if you don’t get it milled, and it’ll go well with the honey. We can dry out some of the berries with the oven and they’ll be very close to raisins.”
“People hate oatmeal-raisin cookies,” I point out.
“No, they don’t. It’s just that they’re the bottom tier of cookie flavors. They’re the basic bitch of cookies, the tub of vanilla ice cream at the ice cream shop. People opt for other flavors when they’re available because oatmeal-raisin isn’t glamorous. But it’s comfy and reminds people of home and you can get close to the taste with your ingredients here, which is key.” She finishes measuring out ingredients and then gestures at my fridge. “Do you have any frozen butter?”
I give her a confused look, stroking Pluto’s scaly nose. “Why would I freeze butter?”
Her eyes go wide. “For pie crusts, of course. Also, you’re melting your butter in your cookies and that’s the wrong thing to do. That’s why they look like sloppy puddles. And you want to rest the dough in the fridge overnight so they keep their shape. Who taught you how to bake?”
“No one.”
Ruth-Ann’s braced shoulders go down. “Well, that explains a lot. What made you want to do a baking business then?”
I give her a meek look. “I saw a hole in the market, and I had an ex-girlfriend that baked and talked about it a lot.”
“Oh.” The hair goes behind her ears again, her expression flustered once more. “Okay, well, I can’t hate on that. I mean, I could, but you don’t know what you don’t know. I’m going to make up some batches for today and chill some for tomorrow, and you’ll be able to see the difference.”
“Okay.” I couldn’t help but notice how unsettled and fluttery she got when I mentioned my ex. Kinda cute, really.
She puts her hands on her hips, surveying my tiny kitchen. “The workflow in here is terrible. Do you mind if I rearrange a few things?”
I shake my head. “I don’t mind.”
And then I sneeze. A lot. It makes Pluto jerk awake, but he doesn’t get up.
Ruth-Ann immediately bustles to my side, taking my mug. Her fingers brush over my forehead, feeling my temperature. “You’re hot. Another cup of tea for you, some soup, and then you should nap. Don’t mind me. I’ll work quietly.”
Sleep sounds amazing. Just talking to her has worn me out. Watching her move around my apartment is exhausting. I nod and settle into the blankets, letting her fuss over me, a stranger she doesn’t even like. I’m not even sure I like her myself.
Her hands were nice, though. Soft and cool against my skin.
