“Are you making oatmeal raisin cookies?”
It’s a hopeful question.
She turns, glances over her shoulder, eyes narrowed when they lock onto mine. “I’m making Chocolate Chip Traitor Cookies, yes.”
I do a little fist pump.
Which she sees, of course.
Her lips quirk. “You’re ridiculous.”
“What? I love your cookies.”
“Or just my cookie?” she teases.
“Well, yours is my favorite,” I say, shifting closer and wrapping my arm around her middle, drawing her back against my chest. “But the ones you bake are pretty damned good too.”
She snorts then relaxes against me. “I was going to surprise you.”
“This is a pretty great surprise already.”
Having her in my house, my arms. Finding her in my kitchen like this.
It feels like…coming home—maybe even more than hockey does.
“Will you teach me?” I blurt.
She freezes, the cup of oatmeal hovering over the bowl. “Teach you how to make my oatmeal raisin cookies?”
I press my lips to the side of her neck. “Yeah.”
“I…” She falls quiet for a moment. “You’d really want me to teach you?” she whispers.
My heart convulses. “Very much so.”
Another pause. Then, “Okay.”
I wait as she seems to get her thoughts together. Then she shifts out of my arms, hands me the measuring cup. “Two more cups of oats in the bowl, Mr. Richardson,” she orders gently.
Grinning, I take it from her, start scooping. “At least you didn’t call me Ricky.”
“What’s that about, anyway?” she asks as she starts measuring sugar and dumps it into the silver bowl, adding the sticks of butter.
“Ricky?”
“Yeah.” She turns on the mixer then tells me the measurements for the baking soda, the salt. “It’s Smitty,” I say as I start measuring. “He’s desperate for me to have a nickname. A bunch haven’t stuck.” I sigh. “I just hope that Ricky doesn’t either.”
“It doesn’t seem to be going away.”
“No.” I stir the dry ingredients when she passes me a spoon. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t.”
“Poor baby.” Her lips twitch as she cracks one egg into the bowl, then the next.
“It could be worse.”
“Yeah? How?”
“Sawyer’s nickname is Cupcake.”
