Page 94 of Danger

I want to say I don’t, but I do. Only took me the entire day to steal her damn car and make it safe to drive again.

“C’mon,” I say, nodding toward the kitchen. “Fisher’s waiting.”

The light’s still on above the island. He’s planted on a barstool, chin in his hands, elbows digging into the granite. There’s a bowl of chocolate chips in front of him, which he’s picking through one by one.

“Finally,” he tells her.

Winnie grins. “Sorry, Chef. Came as quickly as I could to this emergency.”

“Dad says you’re the best baker in town,” he says.

She leans her hip against the counter, hands folded pretty. “I don’t know about that, but I can teach you all my secrets.”

His eyes go wide. “You will?”

“Yep. Wanna help me get the ingredients together?”

“Abso-lutely.”

He’s all in, tearing open the fridge before she’s even finished her sentence. Milk, butter, eggs. Winnie calls out measurements, but he’s got no clue how to read a cup from a quart. She just lets him do everything, all patient, plucking shells from the bowl and laughing when he tries to beat the eggs with the flat of a spatula.

She looks back at me over her shoulder, smile sticky sweet. “Can you preheat the oven?”

I’m already doing it, but I nod anyway. “Only if I get to lick the bowl.”

Winnie grins. “The child gets first dibbs.”

Fisher’s oblivious, lost in the world of sugar and dough. “My buddy said the way to get the ladies to like you is to bake them stuff,” he announces.

I cough into my sleeve. “Your buddy said what?”

He ignores me, laser-focused on Winnie. “Do you think I could take a few to O?”

I look at him crazy. “Who’s O?”

He looks up, sheepish. “Ophelia. She’s… the prettiest girl in school.”

Winnie giggles and ruffles his hair. “And I bet she thinks you’re the cutest boy in school.”

He beams. “I know she does.”

The next half hour’s a blur of flour and spilled vanilla and Winnie’s hands, so careful in guiding his. She leans close every time he messes up, her hair falling loose from the clip. At one point she smudges flour across his cheek, then wipes it away with her thumb, and he barely even notices because he’s so into the mixing.

I watch from a distance. I can’t not. Every time she looks at him, my heart beats like it’s there, almost sparks a feeling I used to get before I knew what it cost to want something that much.

The cookies go in the oven. Fisher sets the timer then stares at it like he can will the numbers down faster. He talks the whole time, a string of what’s-her-favorite-color and what-if-she-doesn’t-like-them and do-you-think-I’ll-ever-get-taller. Winnie answers every question, giving him all her attention.

When the timer buzzes, Fisher yanks open the door, almost getting singed by the heat. “Easy, kid,” I say, pulling him back. I handle the tray, set it on the stove, and let the smell take over.

Fisher picks out the two best, and Winnie puts them into a ziplock bag. She sets them on a napkin, and Fisher writes “O” on it with a Sharpie. The rest get divided—me and him and Winnie. He eats two before they’ve even cooled, chocolate streaking his fingers.

“Best ever,” he mumbles, mouth full.

I say, “Whatever you do, don’t let the ladies see you eatin’ with your mouth open. Women hate that.”

Winnie says, “I don’t know.” She’s looking at me, not Fisher. “Pretty hard to stay mad at that face.”

Once the counter’s cleared, I glance at the clock. Eight forty-five.