If the situation weren’t so dire, I would let myself panic. I would overthink inviting him over. I would feel the rising swell of grief and loss, and I would distract myself and shut the feelings out completely.
But this is Coop, not my brothers. There’s no baggage with him. He doesn’t remind me of my mom and everything I miss. If anything, he makes me wonder if I’m not missing something else, entirely.
Like how imposing yet natural his buff, six-two figure is in my kitchen.
“I see you’re wearing my hoodie,” he says, putting his hands in the oversized pockets and tugging me forward.
It would be so easy to kiss him,I think as I look at his lips.
“I wanted to make sure you remember that I own you,” I say archly.
His eyebrows shoot up. “Really? That’s what you think this gesture says?” he asks, raking his eyes over me.
Holy freaking fruitcake, is it ever hot in here.
“So about those cookies,” I say, stepping to the counter so I can create enough space between us to breathe.
Coop joins me at the kitchen counter, close enough that our arms are touching. It’s a decent sized space, and I have all the ingredients out and ready.
“All right, what do we have going on here? Classic sugar cookie recipe?”
“Yup.”
“Give me an apron, and let’s go to work.”
“You want an apron?”
“What am I, a boxcar hobo? Of course I want an apron.” He turns his baseball hat around, and I want to run my fingers through the hair that peeks out. “Do you not wear an apron when you bake?”
“Never. It’s flour. Who cares?”
“I never pegged you for an outlaw, Sugar Plum.”
“An outlaw? It’s an apron.”
“I notice you have no problem with me calling you Sugar Plum.”
I close my eyes but laugh. “Can we just bake?”
He opens the small pantry closet and puts on Juliet’s apron. It’s red with white frills and says “Mrs. Claus” on it. (Yes, Nate has one in his apartment that says “Mr. Claus,” although it lacks the frills.)
Coop grabs one of our kitchen towels, and the next thing I know, he’s standing behind my back, putting his arms around me. He bends his face right next to mine, and I glance back at him, trying to remember how to breathe.
“What are you doing?”
Then he ties the towel around my waist, giving me a mock half-apron. His thumbs skim against me, and even though a layer of thick cotton separates his skin from mine, I feel the heat of his touch like it’s direct contact.
“There,” he says, his words puffing deliciously against my ear. “Now we’re ready to bake.” He pats my hips, and I sway. “Don’t worry. I’m with you.”
I’m not sure if that’s the most comforting thing any man has ever said to me or the sexiest.
But as Coop gets to work creaming the butter and sugar, I think it may be both.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
LIESEL
An hour later, the dough is chilling, and Coop has made two other types of cookie dough while we’re waiting: melt-aways and gingersnaps.
