Page 9 of Playing With Temptation

“Forget your purse?”

“Probably.”

“Live a sad, boring life without the gooey, yummy goodness of Chocolate Chip Lovers cookies.”

That was oddly specific.

“I take it that’s your hint for me to swing by the store and pick up some cookie dough.”

“I wouldn’t say no to some after-school gooey, yummy goodness. Besides, we’ll need a treat to celebrate you landing a new account.”

There was no doubt, Lucas wanted cookies. But there was truth in what he said about celebrating. That lesson had come from his Aunt Zoe. It was something she’d done since I’d first met her—scored high on a test, celebrate. Cleaned her apartment all in one afternoon—celebrate. Got all of her homework done on top of working for an entire week—celebrate. Graduation—big celebration. My first ‘real’ job, her internship, the day I found out I was pregnant, when Lucas was born, when she met Julian. The list went on and on.

“You have to celebrate your wins, hot stuff. Not just the big stuff. Wins are wins. And the small stuff is where it’s at.”

Damn, I missed my friend.

I also needed to remember to continue teaching my son what Zoe had started.

“Gooey, yummy goodness straight out of the oven. And what about a celebration pizza for dinner?”

“Only if I get pineapple on my half.”

Gross.

Now, that was something Zoe taught my son I didn’t approve of.

“We’re celebrating. You can have whatever you want.”

“Vanilla bean ice cream to make cookie sandwiches?”

Lord.

This kid.

“Sure.”

“You’re the bomb-diggity-dog.”

Shot to the heart.

Something else he learned from his Aunt Zoe. However, I hadn’t heard him say it since her funeral.

“We’ve got five minutes before we’re at your school. Give me a rundown. Two things you’re looking forward to today and one thing you’re worried about.”

“Today’s the last day we’re playing volleyball in gym. Friday is strawberry milk day. My math quiz.”

My kid loved strawberry milk. I’d never tried it, but despite loving strawberries, adding them to milk sounded disgusting.

“I can take it from that you weren’t a fan of volleyball week.”

“Nope. Next week is picketball, which sounds totally lame.”

“Pickleball,” I corrected. “It’s all the rage right now. It could be fun.”

“At least there’s a racket involved,” he mumbled. “Though Mrs. Ashberry already warned the class the first person who uses it as a weapon has to sit out the rest of the week.”

I did not envy Mrs. Ashberry. A group of ten- and eleven-year-olds with a racket that can be used to swat at something sounded like a recipe for disaster.