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We walked up to his porch, and he held his door open for me. “Don’t look like a nerd to me.”
I chuckled. “Still one at heart, even if the package is different.”
“You made a cute nerd.”
I gave a noncommittal response, not sure how to reply otherwise. Maddix’s house was much the same as I remembered it from when we were teens. The hallway was long and wide. The polished hardwood floors gleamed under the warm light filtering through the stained-glass panels on either side of the front door. On the wall hung framed photographs of his mother and another of Maddix playing his guitar.
As we ventured farther inside, the aroma of pastry, cinnamon, and apples wafted through the air. We entered the kitchen through a small archway. The smells assailed my senses and made my mouth water despite having lunch an hour ago.
“That’ll be the first batch.” Maddix stepped around me, grabbed a pair of mittens, and opened the oven. He removed racks of freshly baked pretzels and placed them on the counter. Their golden-brown finish was tempting.
The island in the kitchen was new, replacing the wooden table and chair I’d used to tutor him. He had ingredients for more pretzels on the island—diced apples, a bowl of gooey caramel, a jar of kosher salt, and cinnamon sugar. In a large bowl covered with clear plastic was more dough.
“You really weren’t kidding,” I said.
“Nope. I enjoy baking. It’s relaxing, but with the garage and the band, I don’t have much time to do it. The Apple Festival is a good enough excuse.” Maddix washed his hands at the sink and dried them with a towel. “We’ll leave those to cool while we work on the other batch.”
“We?” I raised an eyebrow. “I’m a terrible cook. “
“How can you be terrible at anything?”
“Remember the time I overboiled the egg?”
He laughed. “I remember everything about you.”
Not exactly what I’d asked. “Well, then you know I’m not making stuff up.”
“I’ll teach you. Come over here. You’re too far. Wash your hands first. Don’t know where they’ve been.”
“Wanking my junk.” I went over to the sink and did as he’d instructed.
“Not that I’d mind if we were cooking for just me, but this is for public consumption. Better to keep it kosher.”
Chuckling, I dried my hands and sidled up to him. What the hell? I had nothing better to do anyway, and it would kill time until Gladys came home.
Maddix taught me how to roll and stretch the dough into long ropes, lifting the ends to make a U-shape, crossing one end over the other until I formed a pretzel. I couldn’t quite get my pretzels to look as neat as his, though, so I gave up.
“We’ll just eat the ones you made,” he said when he was done. He closed the oven and picked up a piping bag.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“The glaze for the pretzels.”
He drizzled the glaze over the cooled pretzels so they looked even more appetizing.
“I want one of these,” I said.
“You’re supposed to wait for the glaze to set.”
“Doubt it’ll taste any different.” I snatched one of the pretzels from the baking sheet.
“Troy! It’s not ready yet!”
It was silly—Maddix being so touchy about the way pretzels came out. Snorting with laughter, I dodged him when he tried to take the pretzel and stuffed it into my mouth.
“It tastes ready to me.” I swallowed around a moan. “More.” The pretzel tasted so damn good.
He placed a hand in the center of my chest and pushed me back. “If you’re going to disrespect my pretzels by not waiting until they’re finished, then get out of my kitchen.”
