by Layne, Ivy
“Read the recipe twice. I'm going to walk you through it, but you're going to do everything yourself.”
Aside from browning the butter, the recipe was pretty basic for chocolate chip cookies. The most recent failed batch wasn't my first attempt. I set the saucepan on the stove, turned the flame to medium-low, and put the butter inside.
Knox said, “Make sure you keep an eye on that. The butter will brown faster than you think it will.”
I nodded, concentrating on the next part; measuring the dry ingredients. I unsealed the bag of flour and dipped in the measuring cup, pulling it out heaped full.
“Stop.”
I froze, the measuring cup still dangling in the air over the open bag.
“This is the first place you're going wrong,” Knox said. “Baking isn't like cooking. Cooking you can estimate, follow your gut. Baking is chemistry. You have to follow the formula. That's way too much flour. With that mound on top, you’ve got at least a cup and a third. Give the side of the measuring cup a tap to settle it, then use the handle of the spatula to scrape off the rest. See the measurement beside the cups in the recipe?”
I tapped, scraped and then checked the recipe on Knox’s phone. Sure enough, right beside 2 cups flour, it said or 250 grams. Huh.
“Is that what the scale is for?” I asked, holding up my cup of flour for his inspection. Knox made a sound of approval and I dumped the flour into the mixing bowl.
“Cookies are pretty forgiving, but for some things, you need to use the scale. Macaroons can be a bitch.”
In my experience, cookies were not at all forgiving. If baking was a science, that explained why I sucked. I'd learned to cook by following recipes, but once I got the hang of the basic principles I liked to improvise.
I was so used to it that I hadn't even noticed I was doing it with baking. I thought of all the times I'd casually measured ingredients and how often the end result tasted wrong.
I measured the second cup of flour precisely. I was carefully leveling exactly half a teaspoon of baking soda when Knox said, “Don't forget the butter.”
I whirled around to find the butter bubbling away on the stove and grabbed the handle of the pan to give it a swirl. Footsteps sounded on the stairs. A moment later Adam skidded into the room.
“You didn't tell me Mr. Knox was here. What are you doing? Making cookies?”
“I'm working on it,” I said, giving Adam a quick smile before asking Knox, “How do I know if the butter is ready?”
“It should be a medium-brownish color and smell kind of nutty.”
I gave the butter a sniff. It did smell kind of nutty and was a pretty golden brown. I turned the heat off and set the skillet aside, feeling absurdly triumphant considering all I'd done was brown a little butter.
“Can I help?” Adam asked, bouncing on his toes beside me as his eyes popped from item to item lined up on the counter. “Please, please, please, can I help?”
Knox's hand settled on Adam's shoulder. Adam stopped bouncing and leaned into Knox's grip in a way that sent giddy bubbles through my chest. Knox looked down at him, crinkles in the corner of his eyes.
“Not this time, bud. If you help, your mom will never learn to do it right.” Adam's face started to fall when Knox winked at him. “I think you should be on the executive team. With me.”
“Executive team? What's that mean?”
“It means we're the kitchen supervisors. The Executive Chefs. Your mom is the Sous Chef, which means she has to do what we say. Also, Executive Chefs get chocolate chips. Sous Chefs don't.”
Adam's eyes brightened at the idea of being my boss. I bit the inside of my lip to stop my grin. Ranging himself in front of Knox, Adam crossed his arms over his chest and gave me an imperious look. “We're the boss of you.”
I nodded in agreement. “Okay, boss. What do I do now? The butter is ready, and I measured the flour and baking soda.”
Adam looked at Knox, eyebrows raised in question. Knox leaned down to whisper something in his ear. Adam said to me, “Whisk together the flour and stuff.”
The side of Knox's mouth quirked, and he nodded. “What he said, but first pour the browned butter into that big bowl. Then drop in the rest of the stick so it can melt.”
Knox watched me carefully, snagging the bag of chocolate chips off the counter and opening it. He poured a few into his hand and dropped it down over Adam's shoulder. Adam scooped them away from Knox, shoving every single one in his mouth at the same time. I rolled my eyes but didn't say anything.
I was intent on using the soft spatula to slide every single drop of butter out of the sauté pan into the mixing bowl before I added the rest, chopped into squares so it would melt faster. I gave the dry ingredients a stir until they were thoroughly blended and turned, whisk in hand, to wait for my next order from the executive chefs.
“Measure the sugar and salt the same way you did the flour. Carefully. Then whisk them into the butter.”
I took my time, overriding my natural instinct to estimate. Knox watched my deliberate movements with a hint of a smile on his lips. Adam pretended to supervise, but his little hand was creeping up to the counter, reaching for the bag of chocolate chips.
Our house was never a free-for-all when it came to candy, but I let it go. I had other priorities, namely not messing up these cookies. Once the sugar and salt were added to the butter, Knox directed me to pour in the teaspoons of vanilla and whisk again.
“Now, one egg and one egg yolk into the butter and sugar mix.”
I picked up an egg and started to crack it on the side of the bowl.
“Stop.”
I froze, egg in hand less than an inch from the side of the stoneware bowl. “What? What did I do?”
“Don't crack the egg right into the bowl. You're not ready for that. Break the eggs into one of those glass measuring cups, and when you know you got it right, pour the egg and the egg yolk into the butter mix.”
I let out a huff of indignation but did as I was told. This wasn't my first time in the kitchen even if I was a crappy baker. I knew how to crack an egg.
I proved myself wrong when I tried to separate the yolk from the white and ended up dumping the whole egg into the measuring cup. Oops.
Adam burst out laughing. Knox was kind enough not to say he'd told me so. I got his point about putting the eggs in the measuring cup before tossing them into the butter mix. On my second try, I separated the yolk cleanly from the white. When everything was incorporated, I stopped and looked up.
Adam said, “What's next, Mr. Knox?”
“We eat more chocolate chips,” Knox said. “Your mom keeps whisking until the lumps are all gone.”
I did.
“Now we let it sit for a few minutes. Then you whisk it again for thirty seconds. Do that two times until it’s thick but smooth and a little shiny.”
“Oookay,” I said, wondering exactly what these repeated whisks were supposed to accomplish. Everything was mixed together, wasn’t that enough? Apparently not.
Adam had chocolate smeared all over his face. I snuck my hand over to snag a chocolate chip. Adam smacked my fingers.
“Sous chefs don’t get chocolate chips,” he said.
“Do executive chefs get chocolate all over their faces?” I asked tartly.
“This one does,” Knox said. Nudging Adam’s shoulder he went on, “Your mom's been doing a good job. I think she deserves a reward, don't you?”
Adam looked dubious, and before I could figure out what Knox meant, he slipped a chocolate chip between my lips. The sweet, rich chocolate melted on my tongue. My breath caught, leaving me off-balance and elated.
I rolled the chocolate chip over my tongue and went back to whisking, looking down to hide the flush in my cheeks.
“Adam, I need your help for this part.” Knox nudged him closer to me. Adam str
aightened and lifted his chin.
“What do you need me to do, Mr. Knox?”
“Help me hold this bowl for your mom. We're going to slowly pour in the flour as she stirs.”
Knox positioned Adam's hands on the bowl and helped him tilt it so the flour would slip in a little at a time. Keeping one hand on the rim in case Adam lost his grip, Knox jiggled the bowl, teasing a sprinkle of flour into my smooth and shiny mix of eggs, butter, and sugar.
Looking at me, he said, “Stir slowly. We don't want to overwork it.”
I was getting good at following orders. I gently mixed in the flour, watching it disappear into the butter and eggs. Finally, it looked like cookie dough. When the bowl was empty, Knox set it aside and handed Adam the remains of the bag of chocolate chips. “Do the same thing with these. Not all at once. Your mom's going to keep stirring the same way.”
The last chip slid into the dough, and Adam dropped the bag, not noticing as it bounced off the side of the counter to hit the floor. I'd get it later. He stuck his head over the side of the bowl.
“Can I lick the spoon, Mom? Can I? Can I? Can I? Please? Please?”
I thought about raw eggs and salmonella and decided some things were worth the risk. I handed Adam the handle of the spoon. He shoved it in his mouth, his cheeks bulging wide, a glop of dough sticking to his bottom lip.
Well, what did I expect? He was five, and there's no such thing as table manners where cookie dough is concerned.
“Now what?” I asked. I was pretty sure it was time to put the cookie dough on the sheet and pop it in the oven, but I wasn't taking any chances. These cookies looked too good to screw up.
“Use the scoop next to the measuring cups. One scoop per cookie, eight on a sheet. We'll bake them in stages.”
Adam finished licking the spoon and started to dip it back into the bowl when Knox's hand shot out, deftly plucking it from his little fingers. “Wait until they're done, bud.”
“I have to wait? How long?”
“Not that long. You can go back to whatever you were playing with and we'll call you when they're ready. They have to cook for a little bit and then cool off.”
“K. But call me as soon as they're ready.”
“The second you can eat them,” Knox promised.
The cookies were in the oven, and Adam was upstairs. I decided to take advantage of the time alone with Knox.
Chapter Fourteen
Lily
Coffee?”
Knox made a sound in the back of his throat I took for agreement. I went to make a fresh pot. While I was measuring beans I asked, trying for casual, “How well did you know Trey?”
Another sound from Knox, this one vaguely surprised. “I didn't know Trey at all. He worked with my father.”
“Oh.” The way Knox had said, ‘He worked with my father,’ made it sound like that meant something. Trying to figure it out, I asked, “So, he only worked with your father?”
“Apparently. I looked at the files after you called, and it seems like they did a lot of business together.”
That left me stumped. What kind of business? We only had the one alarm system. Trey didn't own any other property. His company dealt with logistics, not security. The more I learned the less anything made sense.
I slid the beans into the grinder and pressed the button, the noise drowning out the possibility of conversation, buying me a minute to think. I couldn't pump Knox for information if I didn't know the right questions to ask.
I racked my brain trying to see every angle. I needed help with more than security.
There was no guarantee Knox was my answer, but the temptation to open my mouth and spill everything was killing me. What would happen if I threw myself on his mercy and begged for his help?
The cliché that information is power had never been more true.
If I spilled everything, Knox would own me.
I trusted him.
I wanted to trust him.
Did I trust him that much? Could I?
A mistake wouldn't just make me a fool. A mistake would risk Adam. I couldn't take the chance, no matter how much I wanted to.
Swallowing the urge to confess everything, I dumped the coffee grounds into the filter and started the brewing process. We stood there in the kitchen, both of us leaning against the counter, Knox's arms crossed over his chest, my hands tucked into my pockets.
The scent of chocolate chip cookies filled the air, joined a minute later by the rich notes of fresh coffee. I didn't want to get too excited considering I'd made the cookies myself, but they smelled like chocolate chip cookies.
They smelled like amazing chocolate chip cookies.
Knox's explanation of why I kept screwing up at baking made sense. I went with my gut when it came to spices and seasonings. Since the beginning, I had a good feel for how much salt or pepper, how much acid or fat to use. I was definitely getting a kitchen scale the next time we went to town.
I still couldn't think of a good way to ask Knox about Trey. Trying again, I said, “You read Trey's file after I called?” Knox nodded. “How long did they work together, your dad and Trey?”
Knox's dark gaze leveled on me, serious in a face that could have been carved from granite. I felt like an ant under a microscope. What I'd asked had been wrong, though I didn't know how.
Finally, Knox's eyes shifted to the timer on the stove and he said, “That's confidential, Lily.”
“He was my husband,” I protested.
Knox shrugged a shoulder. “Doesn't matter.”
“But I inherited his business. Doesn't that count for something?”
Another one of those long, dissecting looks. I kept my hands in my pockets but squirmed internally. Knox eventually said, “It makes you liable. Do you understand what that means?”
I gave up. The coffee was finished, and I poured two mugs. I handed Knox his and added cream to my own before I took a sip.
Did inheriting the company make me liable?
Liable for what?
The thought of being responsible for Trey's decisions was chilling. He died leaving behind more questions than answers, and I didn't even know how to ask the right ones.
In my entire life, I'd never felt more alone. The harder I treaded water, the deeper I sank. And Knox, who I thought was an ally, had looked at me with suspicion that bordered on disgust.
The buzzer on the oven went off. Cookies. The coffee was sour in my mouth. Even the smell of cookies didn't lighten my mood.
They would. My problems weren't going anywhere, but, based on the delectable scent coming from the oven, I might have baked real chocolate chip cookies. I'd take my victories where I could find them.
Chocolate-chip cookies could soothe a lot of worry.
Knox strode to the oven and opened it, peering inside. “They're done. You have a cooling rack?”
I did. I pulled it from the cabinet and set it up on the island in the kitchen. Knox took the cookies from the oven and used the spatula to carefully transfer them one by one to the rack. They looked perfect. They smelled divine.
I reached out a hand and yelped when Knox swatted it with the spatula. “They need to cool first,” he said with amusement.
I snuck a look up at him and relief spilled through my chest at the quirk of a grin on his lips. Whatever damage I'd done with my fumbling questions about Trey and his father, Knox seemed to have forgiven me.
I loved that half-smile and the warmth in his eyes. I wanted more, however unwise it was.
“How long do they have to cool?” I asked, a little petulant. I wanted one of those cookies.
More amusement as Knox answered, “Not that long. Put the second tray in the oven and reset the timer. You can have a cookie when the second batch is done.”
I followed orders, mouth watering. That was a long ti
me to wait for a cookie. They looked so perfect, and they smelled so good. And I had baked them. Me.
Granted, I'd been following Knox's directions. Following Annabelle's directions to be accurate, but I didn't want to think about the mysterious Annabelle. The affection in Knox's voice when he said her name got under my skin. She'd given him her secret cookie recipe.
Knox's private life isn't your business, I reminded myself. The mysterious Annabelle wasn't the point. The point was that I had made the cookies, and they looked spectacular. I checked the timer on the oven. Ten minutes left. It might as well have been an eternity.
Knox was staring out the kitchen window at the lake, his back to the rack of cooling cookies. Unable to resist, I reached out a hand and broke off a piece of the cookie closest to me, popping it into my mouth.
Flavor exploded on my tongue, the cookie tasting almost like toffee, rich and buttery and sweet. Then the chocolate melting in my mouth, the crisp crunch on the outside, soft and gooey in the middle.
That chocolate chip cookie was the best thing I'd ever tasted. And I had made it. Triumph flooded through me, along with relief that I'd finally cracked the baking code, the rush of emotion strong enough to bring tears to my eyes.
I shoved another bite of cookie into my mouth and moaned at how good it tasted. I could eat these cookies all day. Knox's eyes came to me, his grin stretched all the way across his mouth. He shook his head.
“What are you, Adam? You couldn't wait another eight minutes?”
I swung my head from side to side in a No, my eyes rolled up, every taste bud alight with perfection.
So good.
It was so good, and I did this.
I swallowed, bouncing on the balls of my feet, not unlike my son. I felt like a five-year-old. I wasn't a failure in the kitchen. If I could bake cookies this good, I could do anything. I swallowed the bite of cookie in my mouth and immediately wanted more of the crispy, chewy, toffee, chocolatey goodness.