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I reach for the plate of cookies, but he smacks my hand. “Not yet.”
“Now, who’s prickly?” I argue.
He grins. “Chop-chop, Kate.”
A few minutes later, I place little dollops of premade dough onto the parchment paper as he grabs the brown sugar, flour, butter, eggs, and everything else the Googled recipe calls for, setting each ingredient onto the counter and next to the things he’d purchased earlier tonight. Stepping back, he scans the list one more time. I smile when I realize how focused he is. His brows are pinched, and his lips are moving slightly as if he’s talking to himself, mentally checking everything off the list.
Does he have any idea?
How freaking cute he is? How he somehow has a direct line to my ovaries––and probably every other girl’s ovaries on the planet? If he does, it isn’t fair. Then again, if he doesn’t, it’s almost worse.
With great power comes great responsibility.
And man, this guy could easily have power over me.
When he catches me staring, he asks, “Everything okay?”
“Mm-hmm,” I hum, biting my cheek to keep from grinning like a lunatic or blushing like Bashful fromSnow White and the Seven Dwarfssince I most definitely was caught staring at the guy.
“Something funny?” he prods.
“Nothing.”
“What were you staring at?”
“You.”
“What about me?”
“Didn’t know I’d be hanging out with Betty Crocker,” I tell him.
“Oh, yeah.” He snaps his fingers and pulls a pair of aprons from the bottom drawer next to the fridge. “Thanks for reminding me.”
With a flick of his wrist, he tosses one to me, and I catch it. “Are you serious?”
“Gotta keep your clothes clean, Kate.” He ties his own black apron around his waist. It’s the same one from the last time I was here when he decided to make homemade chicken pot pie. The memory makes me smile.
As he defrosts the butter in the microwave, I watch him move around the kitchen, dumbfounded. “You thought of everything, didn’t you?”
He looks at me and smirks. “Tried to. Now, hurry up. Let’s put those in the oven.”
A few minutes later, the familiar scent of baking cookies fills the air and makes my mouth water as I stand in front of the hand mixer and glass bowl filled with butter, sugar, and eggs.
It’s weird. How natural I feel. How comfortable I feel. In his space. Baking. Smiling. Laughing.
He’s definitely charming, my golden retriever.
“So, Mr. Recently Divorced,” I muse.
“Love the nickname,” he mutters, his words dripping with sarcasm.
I laugh. “Thought you might. But tell me, have you started dating yet?”
He glances at me, an expression passing in his eyes. It’s gone too quickly for me to analyze what it is, and he pulls a spatula from the drawer, handing it to me.
As I turn off the mixer and scrape the sides of the bowl, he answers, “Not really. Why do you ask?”
“Because this is a pretty perfect date activity despite us both agreeing we’re only each other’s boring friend. Which is fine, by the way,” I lie. “But seriously. The fireplace. The smell of cookies in the air. The gorgeous house making you look like you have your life together. It’s pretty much the perfect trifecta.”
