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Too often, by the time I realized how deep I was, the edge was already out of reach, and I was sliding towards the inevitable. Nicky seemed like she would be a soft place to land.
I got the oven preheating and gave her the task of overseeing the mixer while the icing sugar and butter whipped together. The recipe was simple, and one that I had memorized years ago. But Nicky was mostly a baking newbie, so I explained the process as we went and the point of each of the steps so that we got the fluffiest cookies possible.
I indulged myself, draping my arms around her waist and managing the mixer while she poured the ingredients in turn until we had a dough formed.
“How are your piping skills?” I asked.
“Like plumbing?” she asked.
A traitorous snort laugh escaped before I could stop it. “Not quite, but I’ll show you.”
I tasked her with holding the piping bag so I could scoop our dough into it.
I squeezed one glossy swirl out onto the cookie sheet. “Your turn. Come here and try.”
She accepted the piping bag with nervous fingers and squeezed out an uneven swirl, turning those beautiful brown eyes on me. “Help.”
I tidied up the dough back into the bag, made sure the top was twisted closed properly, and adjusted her grip, keeping my hands over hers as we moved in one fluid motion. “There you go, just like that.”
She was warm in my embrace, and I couldn’t help nuzzling her cheek as I guided her through a few more cookie swirls before letting her finish off the tray.
“I no longer have to wonder how your arms are so strong. This is a lot of work.”
I laughed and breathed her in. “Oh yeah. Between piping and kneading,everyday is arm day. You did a good job Nicky.”
She flushed at the praise.
“You can pop those in the oven. Set the timer for fifteen minutes while I tidy our space so we can make our glaze.”
I liked her in our kitchen. If she stuck around—and I hoped she did—we’d have to get her her own apron. She turned back to me after completing her task, happy as a little clam.
Too fucking cute.
It took only a minute to load up the dishwasher and get it running. Lemon glaze was always my favourite, perfect for adding that bright pop of sweet freshness. Nicky watched me with a rapt attention as I combined the icing sugar and the lemon juice, dipping a spoon into the mixture for her to test the balance. Her whole face puckered at the first sample and I laughed at her shiver.
“Noted. I’ll add a little more sugar.”
While we waited for the cookies to finish baking, I got her to tell me about some of her favourite food experiences so I could make sure we added those little touches when she visited. I wouldn’t be able to compete with an Italian grandmother, but I could definitely take a stab at making her some cannoli that was just as delicious as the ones she had for her eighteenth birthday. It was no surprise that most of her favourites were Italian, but she had a few fun experiences in college—an Iranian classmate who had invited her over for tahdig, a Greek neighbour who surprised her with treats regularly, and an international fair at school where she had consumed her weight in horchata to stave off the summer heat.
I transferred the baked cookies onto a cooling rack and sent her to go shower.
I set a protective cover over the cookies just in case Spud or Roscoe got curious, and disappeared to shower myself. I added some curling mousse to my hair and I stood in front of the mirror, trimming down a good portion of my beard so it was much neater.
Next, I was facing down my closet. The compulsion to put on a suit when meeting a partner's family never quite went away. Nicky assured me that anything that fancy wasn’t necessary, so I stuck to dark wash jeans and a black button down with a silvery pinstripe.
“How comeyouget to go?” asked Billie, popping their head into my room. “I’m the one who found her.”
“Because I was the one her mom overheard when she called.” Billie pouted, and I leaned over to kiss that expression off their face. “Don’t be jealous. I’m sure Nicky will bring you to meet them soon.”
They sighed dramatically and flopped back onto my bed, purple curls spreading like a halo around them.
A knock on my door had both of us turning. Nicky slipped inside wearing a ruffly white button down tank top and black dress pants that would be equally suited to dinner and her shift at the library afterward.
Billie sat up, looking hopefully toward Nicky, who beelined over and kissed them softly.
“I want to go to dinner, too,” said Billie.
Nicky stroked their cheeks. “Soon. I have to work up a little more courage, but I promise I’ll take you to meet them another time.” She gave Billie a sweet, slow kiss before turning to me. “The cookies felt cool enough when I checked them. Are we ready to ice them?”
