Tough Cookies

by Shyla Colt

  She shakes her head. “You boys are still trying to eat us out of house and home.” She waves me toward the kitchen. “Go. Everyone else is waiting. You’re the last one to arrive today.”

  I can see the worry fading in her eyes. She thought I might not come. I hate putting her in an awkward position. Papa is the head of the house, but sometimes his ideas don’t match mine. I shrug off my jacket, hang it up on the hook by the door, and hurry into the kitchen.

  “I’m sorry I’m late. I got caught up with planning.”

  My father shoots me an unimpressed look as I continue over to the sink to wash my hands.

  “Were you doing some filming today?” Evander asks.

  I flash him a grateful expression. My brothers have each shown their support for me in their own way. Both check in on me pretty much daily, and Evander has made some graphics for the show. Shaking the excess water off my hands, I hold them up like a surgeon before patting them dry on a towel. My mother has always been a stickler for clean hands. I take the seat beside Winston on the opposite side of the table from Papa. I can still feel the tension strung tight between us like a bow.

  “No, I was plotting an entirely new segment.”

  “That’s interesting.” Mom smiles, trying to keep the peace as she shows interest.

  I grasp it, not examining authenticity. The fact that she’s trying is a step in the right direction.

  “And this is going to bring in money how?” Papa asks.

  “The more people who view my videos, the more money I make, and the better chance I have for endorsements. I think Baking Redemptions will bring a lot of new viewers and local attention. Do you guys remember hearing about the Cookie Woman?”

  “Who?” Winston asks.

  “The poor woman who set her oven on fire on New Year’s Eve trying to bake cookies,” Mom explains as she places fresh tortillas and Carne Asada on the table.

  “That’s her. She sent me an email asking me to teach her how to bake for her daughter’s bake sale at school. It was sweet.”

  “Is that safe?” Evander arches an eyebrow. “I mean, look at what already happened. I’m worried about your safety, bro.”

  “You’re too kind, Vander. I’ll be there to supervise this time.” I pause. “But, at least we know the fire department responds quickly.”

  My brothers laugh.

  “And you are going to help this woman?” Papa asks.

  “Yes, I’m going to start her off with the basics, and once she’s comfortable, move on to helping her find her own style. I’ll just be taping it. I thought it would be nice to do a sort of reforming worst bakers’ series.”

  “That sounds like fun! Abuelita would approve, too. You’re passing down knowledge, and hopefully with it, your love of baking.” Mom places the cheese, sour cream, and guacamole on the table and takes her place beside Papa.

  “People actually want to see this?” Papa asks, genuinely confused.

  “Oh yeah. There are a ton of popular shows that do this,” Winston says.

  “Hmm.” Papa’s noncommittal sound is a win in my book.

  I’m painfully aware that I’m throwing Matilda Lawson under the bus. She was hesitant to agree to the taping and promotions clause in my contract. When I insisted, she yielded. I failed to mention that soon her face will be plastered everywhere I can think of or that my hopes of going viral hinge on her unfortunate disaster in the kitchen. I squash the guilt trying to form. There’s no reason we can’t both get what we need from this situation. She chose to sign the contract. I was upfront. Nothing I have in mind will be outside of the parameters I had written down.

  “If you can pull this off. It’ll be excellent publicity,” Evander says.

  “I’m counting on that,” I admit toying with my silverware as I justify my actions to myself.

  Winston nods. “I mean, they call him the Cookie King because of all the recipes he creates during the holidays. His honor is at stake.”

  “No pressure, guys,” I say dryly.

  “How can we help?” Winston leans forward, eager to help.

  I smile. “When it airs, tell everyone, and help me spread the news on social media.”

  “You should do a lead-up,” Winston says.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Promote it. You know this is for the bake sale, right? Make it a redemption story with a deadline. Everyone loves that. And I mean, she’s famous for her failure, so why wouldn’t she want a chance to set the record straight?” Evander shrugs.

  “That’s genius.” I point at him as my mind spins. She can get her own special run of the segment. I need to come up with a clever tag.

  “We do know a thing or two about advertising,” Evander says sarcastically.

  I roll my eyes.

  “As much as I love to see my boys working together, it’s time for grace.” Mom turns to Papa. “Ernesto?”

  “Father, we thank you for the food we’re about to see in the nourishing body of Jesus Christ our Lord.”

  “Amen,” we chorus. The food begins to circulate the table—conversation shifts to the rest of the family and their week.

  “ONE WOMAN.” A PICTURE of Matilda Lawson pops up on the screen. Her tempting pink lips are parted in laughter, and her eyes seem to sparkle in the light. Anyone that beautiful needs a flaw. Maybe baking is hers. “With one goal. To bake the best-tasting cookie anyone has ever eaten.” A montage of delicious looking cookies from my show follows. The background music swells, increasing in crescendo. “After a tumultuous attempt on New Year’s Eve, the odds are stacked against her.” A clip of the fire department leaving her home plays along with her tongue in cheek. “Did you know cookies could catch on fire?” “But the Cookie King is here to help her find redemption.” A picture of me holding up a spatula flashes. “The Cookie Woman and the Cookie King have a mere three weeks to turn her into baking royalty. Join us weekly for our first series of Baking Redemptions.”

  “The response to this has been insane,” Winston says.

  “Yeah.” My phone vibrates again, and I ignore it. Matilda Lawson hadn’t appreciated the publicity. “Apparently, her social media has exploded, and her friends and family have been calling her non-stop. She’s not too happy about it.”

  “She signed a contract agreeing to publicity, right?” Winston asks.

  “Of course,” I scoff. “This isn’t amateur hour.”

  Winston shrugs. “Then she’ll have to deal with it.”

  “Unless she cancels on me, leaving me in a lurch.”

  “No, that would make her look like a coward. No one wants that,” Evander says, walking in with the T-shirts I ordered.

  “It’s going to be hard to show her the beauty of cooking if she wants to take my head off.”

  “She wouldn’t be the first woman you’ve pissed off,” Evander says. He tosses me the black T-shirt with the cookie with a crown on it. The words Cookie King are written across the back in a bold yellow that curves around a chocolate chip cookie. Her’s is identical, except it says Cookie Queen in Training.

  “Look who’s talking. You’ve never been Mr. Smooth yourself.” I scrutinize the shirts.

  “Do you need a camera person?” Winston asks.

  “No. Why?” My suspicion rises.

  “Because I want to be there when she dumps a bowl of something over your head.” Evander gives Win a fist bump.

  I glower. “Your faith in me is humbling.”

  “We’re just trying to prepare you for all possible scenarios, bro.” Evander holds up his hand in mock surrender.

  “Your kindness isn’t appreciated, jackasses. We’re in our thirties, and you’re still getting me into trouble.”

  “I don’t feel very valued, E,” Win sniffs.

  “Me either, Win. He has us slaving away on our day off and doesn’t even say thank you.” Evander tsks.

  “All right, comedians, it’s time for the two of you to go.” My nerves are worn thin enough without them taking t
he piss out of me.

  “Okay. Let’s go. Anders needs to get ready for his date.” Win flutters his lashes.

  “Seriously, good luck. You’ve got Papa’s charm. You’ll be fine if she lets you in the door.” I toss the shirt at him. Laughing, he dances out of the way as it lands on the carpet.

  “Thanks for all your help today.”

  “Anytime,” Evander calls over his shoulder.

  “We always got your back.” Win salutes and they exit the house, locking the door behind them.

  Their hazing helped me relax. Grabbing my checklist, I check my cases. I’m going to need all my equipment, lighting, the background I want to film our interview in front of, and cameras. It’s a lot of work to take the show on the road. Maybe next time, I’ll hire a small crew. I busy myself with double checks and packing to stay calm. I have a lot riding on this. I have to make sure this risk pans out.

  The buzz is great, but it’s also an anchor tied around me. All eyes are on me, and people are expecting me to deliver. It’s a make-or-break moment. I think of Papa’s disbelieving attitude, Mom’s hopeful expression, and my dwindling bank account. Whatever it takes, I’ll get what I need from Matilda Lawson. After latching the case, I start the process of carrying everything to the car. It’s just like when I had my first ad pitch. You fake it until you make it, and sell it ’til they feel like they need it. I made a living figuring out what it is people are looking for and offering it to them. This won’t be any different. I already had an in, her daughter. I lock the door to my house, climb into the car, and make my way to her home.

  Businesses in the small town make it their business to keep up on significant events in the area. Matilda and Jackson divorcing shook the community. Their commercials were disgustingly wholesome and cute. I felt like I saw their kid grow up in real-time. Every year they were there, shiny, happy, and selling you the American dream more than the cars on the lot. I’d seen the young blonde he left Matilda for, and in my mind, there was no contest. I wouldn’t waste my time with a girl who didn’t even remember Are You Afraid of the Dark? when I could have the curvy, cat-eyed woman who’d held him down since high school. Loyalty was the most attractive thing a woman could have. Apparently, Jackson Lawson didn’t see it that way. They were a couple of years behind me in high school, but I remember what an entitled prick he could be. Daddy made a cushy life, and he expected to be treated like a king because he always had been. She had seemed too lovely for him then. I guess that hadn’t really changed.

  We never ran in the same circles, but we know each other like all kids do in a town this size. Pulling onto her street, I admire her two-story, brick home and park. I step out, and make my way to the front door, smirking at the Tardis Blue color with the Police Box Logo on the front, and knock.

  The door swings open to reveal a set of flashing hazel-colored, cat-like eyes and pursed, pink lips. Wild brown curls are pulled back and left to tumble down her back, away from her slender, oval-shaped face. Her small nose twitches like a rabbit. She’s stunning in her anger, and I am one-hundred percent screwed.

  My gaze sweeps over her frame, lingering on her scoop neck, black T-shirt that fits her like a second skin and disappears inside of the dark denim that encases her thick thighed, long legs. Heat spirals through me. Hell of a time to remember it’s been a few years of drought. The silence stretches out like saltwater taffy, sweet and bitter. I thrust the shirt at her. The sooner she drapes this over her delectable body, the better I’ll be able to concentrate.

  She eyes the black cloth with distrust. “What’s this?”

  “A present. Hi.”

  She sniffs. “You mean a peace offering? Which I’m not sure I’m accepting?”

  “It’s a good thing that people are interested in our mission.”

  “Maybe for you.”

  “I’ll make your comeback even more epic.”

  She arches her eyebrow. “Or my failure that much more painful.”

  “That’s not going to happen on my watch.” I shake my head.

  “I believe that. It’s the only reason I’m letting you in right now.” She steps back, and I hurry inside before she can change her mind.

  “I did lay out everything in our contract.”

  “No. I wasn’t prepared to be the poster girl for crappy cookies.” Waving the shirt at me, she rolls her eyes. “Cookie Queen in Training?”

  “The people love a catchy phrase. Who am I to deny them?” I shrug.

  “I am guessing you want me to wear this?”

  Yes, for my sanity. “If you don’t mind. I have my own, so you won’t be alone.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “I’m Anders Rivera, by the way.” I hold my hand out.

  “Matilda Lawson. We went to the same high school.” Her hand is soft, and her handshake is firm.

  “Yes, we did. I was a couple years ahead of you. It’s nice to see you again.”

  “The jury is still out for me.” She narrows her eyes.

  I grimace. “Tough crowd.”

  “The proof will be in the pudding ... or cookie as it were.”

  “Whoa. You don’t start out the gate creating masterpieces.”

  “Please, break it down for me.” Her lips twitch up into a small smile.

  I’ll take her amusement over her annoyance. “People think baking is simply measuring and timing, but they’re wrong. A real baker does it with their heart and soul. It’s a gut feeling. Whatever you put in will come through. It flavors your creations.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “When you’re blocking everything else out and really getting into making things, it’s not only fun, it can be soothing and healing. I learned to bake from my abuelita. She taught me all the recipes that had been passed down in our family. This is why I want to see where your mind and heart are. Then we’ll get you in the right mindset.”

  “I don’t have any memories like that. I mean, my mother taught me how to cook. We did a lot of making meals together. Still do occasionally.” Her mood brightens.

  I’m on the right path.

  “But not baking?” I ask.

  “No. I mean brownies and cupcakes, but they were from a box.”

  “It still counts,” I assure her. “How do you feel when you bake?”

  “I ... don’t?” She looks at me with inquisitive eyes.

  “We’ll have to fix that. I have some things I’d like to bring in if you don’t mind.” This is her home, and I want her to know; ultimately, she is still in charge.

  She smiles. “I don’t mind. Let me help. When do you plan to start filming?” I can hear the nervousness creep into her voice.

  “I thought we’d do an interview of sorts.”

  “Why?”

  “Because people want to know about the person on screen.”

  She scowls. “They already know too much, believe me. You know who my ex-in-laws are.”

  “You can’t be from this town and not know the Lawsons,” I admit.

  “Exactly. I wanted to get away from all that. I was doing well until I nearly sent my kitchen up in flames.”

  Unease settles over me. Matilda’s ideal situation is the exact opposite of what I’m aiming for. She’ll probably hate me by the time this is through, and that is the last thing I want. That doesn’t sit right with me. Matilda Lawson is a temptation I don’t want to resist. It’s bad practice to mix business with pleasure, but she’ll only be my client for a limited time.

  “Trust me to show you how wonderful cooking can be, and it’ll change everything.”

  She bites her lip. “Do you really think you can help me?”

  “Hey.” I tip her chin up to look at me, ignoring the tingles that dance along my fingertips. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

  A shy smile creeps over her mouth, and I sense her guard lowering slightly. I want to see more of the woman beneath the tough girl exterior. “We have a little lady to impress, don’t we?”

  “Cle
mentine. Clem.”

  “Right. We can’t let Clem down.”

  Her eyes grow sharp with determination. “No, we can’t. We should get started.”

  I gesture for her to lead the way. It’d be impossible not to admire the curve of her ass and the sway of her hips as she walks. It’s going to be a long month.

  Chapter Three

  Graham Gems ~

  1 cup whole wheat Graham flour (such as Bob’s Red Mill or Hodgson Mill brand)

  ½ cup white flour

  1 tsp baking powder

  ½ tsp salt

  2 eggs, separated

  1 cup milk

  2 tbsp maple syrup (or honey)

  MATILDA

  “Are you so desperate for attention you would put yourself out there like this?”

  I look up from the book I’m reading and find Jackson in the doorway of my office.

  “Hello to you, too, Jackson. Please, come in.”

  He scowls and walks inside, shutting the door behind him. How had I ever mistaken his arrogance for strength and confidence? I’m chalking it up to being young, stupid, and in love. They do say love is blind for a reason.

  “People are contacting me for interviews, Tilda!”

  I hate the sound of my nickname on his lips. What was once sweet and endearing feels tainted and dirty.

  “I’ve asked you not to call me that anymore, Jackson.”

  He blinks. “You can’t erase our past.”

  “No. But I can put up new boundaries that you need to respect. We’re not together anymore. You don’t get to call me a cutesy name to sway me to whatever point you’re about to make.”

  He scowls. “What the hell is going on with you? Are you really this threatened by Brittany?”

  I laugh. “She is a child who’s welcome to you. If she can keep you.”

  “I love her.”

  “And you loved me. Didn’t stop you for trading me in for a shinier model.”

  His full, upper lip curls and his bright blue eyes flash with indignation. “That is not what happened.”

  “Wasn’t it?” I tilt my head. “I guess we recall things differently.”