“I think the key was discovering there’s a difference between baking powder and baking soda.”
“Maybe. Who knew, right? Why name them so similarly and give them similar jobs, but make them not interchangeable,” she said as she turned around, only to find he was still right behind her. As in right behind her.
He smiled. And didn’t move. “Like you said, it is a miracle we didn’t flunk that first semester of science.”
“You mean me flunking. I think you were just humoring me so I didn’t feel so ridiculous. Then and now. You knew about the baking soda powder thing, didn’t you, science guy?”
His dimples peeked out. “Maybe.” He talked over her rebuttal. “But one thing I’ve learned in science is that it’s better to learn by figuring it out yourself than simply by observing others. You tend to remember those lessons better. And it can help illuminate other mysteries as well.”
“Fancy talk for saying ‘told you so’ but I appreciate the thought.” It was too easy to get caught up in those wonderfully deep brown eyes of his, especially when he was smiling at her and they had that affectionate twinkle in them. As if he alone understood how her brain worked . . . and he liked it.
She cleared her throat and turned back to the cookies. “I think it’s been five minutes.”
He reached past her and popped one of the cookies off the sheet. “Try one.”
Feeling him behind her brought back memories of the night before in the coffee shop, when he’d put her coat on . . . and taken it off. “They’re probably still hot.”
He nudged her around with his other hand, free now of the oven mitt, until she found herself between him and the edge of the work table. He broke the cookie in half, and she could see the melted chocolate string, all glossy and melty, between the two halves. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, to get her perspective back, but he took advantage of the moment and tucked her half of the cookie between her teeth, while he simultaneously bit into the other half.
They both groaned and she saw his eyes close just before hers did the same. “Oh my God,” she said, around a mouth full of cookie. “These are—”
“Incredible.”
“I never knew chocolate chip cookies could taste like this.”
“My sister says it’s the oatmeal mixed in.”
Clara enjoyed every last bit of her bite of cookie, reveling in all the buttery, chocolaty flavors, her eyes still closed. “Your sister is a genius.”
“This is no kids’ recipe, I can tell you that,” he said, sounding equally entranced. “These things are probably illegal in several states.”
Clara opened her eyes at the same time he did. Their gazes connected, held, then he slowly fed her another bite. She thought he might have groaned when she sank her teeth into the warm, crumbly cookie, but she was too busy making her own little happy noises as more of the delectable chocolate melted on her tongue. “Seriously illegal,” she said, eyes shut again, her body humming on a chocolate buzz . . . and a Will buzz. “State. Federal. Possibly international.”
She opened her eyes to find his gaze had gone as deep and chocolaty as the cookies, all but devouring her as she licked the last bit of chocolate from the corner of her mouth.
His voice was rough, and deep, when he spoke. “I don’t know if I want to thank my sister right now, or kill her for giving us this recipe.”
“I want to erect a statue in her honor in the town square. She just single-handedly rescued my first column. Won’t she like having her recipe featured in the cookie column?”
“Probably. Definitely. But that’s not what I’m talking about.”
Clara could feel the heat rising between them, and it had nothing to do with oven temperatures or hot cookie sheets. “Right.”
“How committed are you to that whole no-men thing?”
She felt her throat close over. While every inch of the rest of her stood up and cheered. Loudly. “It seemed like the smart thing at the time.”
“And now?”
And now she wanted him to clear the work table with one big strong arm and take her right in the middle of his sister’s awesome chocolate chip cookies. “My job,” she managed. “Deadlines.”
“We’ve got the first one covered.”
“True.” Her gaze might have drifted to his mouth. And she swore she could feel his grip tighten on the counter where he’d braced his hands on either side of her hips.
“I have three more sisters. They all bake. You have two friends who bake. That’s five more columns.”
“It sounds so easy when you put it like that.”
“It could be easy, Parker. In fact, I think it could be the easiest thing I’ve ever done.” He lifted one hand and brushed at a smudge of flour on her cheek. “What’s hard is not doing anything. Really, really hard.”
She swallowed past the tightness in her throat and forced her gaze to stay on his face, and not travel down the front of his body, looking for proof of that statement. Every part of her all but jumped up and down and begged her to just let go, go with the moment, let him do . . . whatever he wanted to do. For as long as he wanted to do it.
But she made herself remember standing in Joe’s Grocery, and that moment when she’d entered Willard’s cabin to find an orgy in progress, and listening to Stuart’s mother say awful things while he just stood by and looked helpless to intervene. She didn’t want to add Will to that list. Will could never be on that list. He was the one good thing, her one relationship success, even if that relationship was just friendship. Will was gorgeous and confident now, wanted what he wanted and didn’t seem at all shy about going after it . . . but how long would he want it? Want her?
“I—I can’t be an easy thing,” she whispered. “I—I don’t want to be that. Ever again. Especially with you.” She started to raise a shaky hand to his face, but thought better of touching him and curled her fingers into her palm. “You matter to me, Will. You did back then, and you already do now. So, I just . . . I need to matter, too.”
He looked honestly stunned, which didn’t help her in the clear-thinking department at all. “What makes you think you don’t?”
“Look at you,” she whispered. “You’re . . . amazing. And I’m, I’m still gawky and awkward. I have one eyebrow, for God’s sake, and I should be declared my own personal disaster site. You’re accomplishing your goals and I’m trying not to lose my second job in a week’s time. I know you’re caught up in memories of our past friendship, and it was a good time in our lives. I’m a little caught up, too. I just . . . don’t want this to be some retro, second chance fling. It would be—”
“The third thing,” he finished. “Grocery store, book store . . .”
“Will’s kitchen,” she finished. “Only, this one would be so much worse, you know? I’m trying to be smart this time.”
“Okay.”
She blinked, and hated—hated—how hard and fast her heart sank when he didn’t put up even a token fight for her. Even as she realized that was what she’d just asked him to do, and should be happy, relieved, that he’d respected her enough not to push harder. Or that she’d been right, and it ultimately hadn’t been that big a deal to begin with. Just . . . convenient. Easy. She ducked her chin, not wanting him to see any of that in her expression. He was being a good guy. She was the one being ridiculous.
But there was to be no easy escape. He tipped her chin up until she was forced to look into his eyes. “You’re right. It shouldn’t be easy. It shouldn’t be something jumped into without taking the time to make it mean something first.” He cupped her face. “You do mean something. You did then and if anything, it feels like more now. Or like it could be more. But just because we’re not kids anymore, and the things I want to do to you, and with you, are decidedly adult, doesn’t mean we should leapfrog past all the other important things and go straight to the adult things.”
“Will—”
“Parker.” He framed her face now. “When I take you to bed, I want
there to be absolutely no doubt in your mind that you matter. I want you to know, I want us both to know, that sex isn’t just something we’re doing because it’s easy and available, but because we mean to go on like we began. Friends first. And always. Out of bed . . . and in.”
Tears burned at the corners of her eyes. No one had ever said anything like that to her. And no one, except for Will, had ever known her well enough to mean it.
His mouth turned downward and he thumbed away her tears. “I’m not trying to upset you. I won’t push.” At her arch look, even as her lips trembled, he smiled. “Okay, I won’t push anymore. You’ve had a hell of a day and I know you’re under the gun with this new column stint. I think your idea of handling it honestly, as a non-baker, with the ‘If I can do it, anyone can’ approach, bringing humor and your own missteps to the project, is brilliant. I know your editor will love it.”
“I hope so. It’s the only way I can hope to pull it off.”
“So, let’s get through launching your new career as the Lucy Ricardo of baking, and get to know each other better while you’re at it. Do you trust me?”
She nodded. It was all she was capable of.
“Then that’s where we start.” He slid one tear off her cheek on the side of his thumb, then leaned in and very gently kissed away the matching one on her other cheek. “It’s been a really long day for us both. You’ve got the first column nailed. A good night’s sleep followed by my famous firehouse breakfast—the only other meal I can cook, by the way—and we’ll both get a fresh start on the rest tomorrow. Deal?”
She nodded again, knowing if she even tried to tell him what he meant to her in that moment, she’d fall apart much as she had in the cab of his truck after the fire. Which was almost impossible to believe had happened earlier that very day. He was right. Again. It had been a really long day. Brutal, in many ways. And beautiful in others.
“I’ll take kitchen cleanup duty this time,” he said. “Your turn next time. Why don’t you go on up. Take my laptop, climb into bed, work there in peace and quiet, then get some sleep. Do you need anything? Hot tea?” He smiled. “Some awesome chocolate chip cookies and milk?”
Just you. It was only the fresh tears clogging her throat that mercifully kept her from blurting the words out loud. She could only imagine how wonderfully comforting it would feel to crawl into his bed instead and say the hell with the column, to be pulled into his arms, to feel the warmth and strength of him comforting her all night long. Sometimes being an adult about things sucked. “I’m good.” She pushed away from the work table and he stepped back so she could slide out. She paused at the door to the foyer and stairs leading to the second floor. “Thank you.”
He grinned, and it was so honest, so open, so . . . Will. Her Will. And just like that, all the tension, all the worry, all the bad things, and even all the frustrating things, simply fell away. At least for that moment. She did trust him, and that was exactly the right place to start. So she clung to it, and in that way, clung to him, and everything he’d promised.
“Anytime,” he said. Then that grin deepened, and the dimples winked, the cleft appeared, and she hurried up the stairs before she changed her mind.
Chapter 7
Being a good guy was pretty much going to kill him. Not that he’d ever considered himself a bad guy in the past. But if Santa did in fact keep a naughty-or-nice list, the thoughts he’d been having about Parker for the past two days would definitely put him with the first group.
He watched from the doorway as she sat curled on his couch, feet tucked up under his mother’s old quilt, which she’d thrown over her legs. A pile of notes, index cards, and a book on baking basics littered the coffee table in front of her. She had two pens on top of the pile and a pencil tucked behind one ear, but wasn’t using any of them as far as he could tell. The ever present, oversized glass of ice and Coke—her go-to deadline beverage in college and now—fought for space amongst the writer’s coffee-table detritus. It was empty, he noted, once again, making a mental note to switch from cans to two-liter bottles.
Tiny little gold-rimmed half glasses, which were a new addition since college, had been pushed up on her head, making her short red curls stick out at odd angles. She wore no makeup other than the Chapstick she was always rubbing over her lips . . . so she could bite it right back off again, as she was doing now while typing away, then pausing, staring, studying, thinking, occasionally swearing, then typing some more. It was probably wrong to be jealous of a tube of Chapstick for its constant lip contact with her, but there it was.
They’d gone back by her house later that first day, but, as he’d predicted, her clothes would require professional cleaning. They’d even left her laptop behind, stuffed in a sealed plastic bag with a bunch of scrunched up newspapers to try and detoxify it. Her SUV had been buried under snowdrifts and piles from the street plows, so that had been left behind as well. She’d fallen asleep as they’d made their way back to Bealetown, the exhaustion and shock finally catching up with her, so he hadn’t stopped anywhere on the trek back. He’d intended to make a quick run out to pick up a few things for her, but he’d put it off with various excuses, which he realized now was because he liked her just the way she was.
Swallowed up in the navy blue sweats and BCFD hoodie he’d given her, she should have looked shapeless and less desirable, but it hadn’t had that effect at all. Quite the opposite. The dark color made her pale skin look even creamier, softer, all but begging him to put some color into those cheeks of hers. And he knew exactly how her body felt now, so his imagination had no problem putting forth a scenario that had him joining her on the couch, sliding his laptop to the floor, then plucking her glasses from her head, and the pencil from behind her ear . . . and taking off whatever was left of that Chapstick with his mouth on hers, as he slid her down and under him . . .
He cleared his throat, and his mind, causing her to look up as he walked through the kitchen to the living room.
She blinked once and he could almost see her disconnect from whatever she’d been writing, as she shifted her attention outward, to him. “You’re back.”
“I am. Roads are pretty clear in town now, so things are looking up. You look like you could use a refill.”
“I’ll get it. I need to get up, stretch my legs.”
“Column number four going okay?”
“That’s just it. It’s flying. It’s going so okay that I’m pretty sure I must be doing something terribly wrong.”
“This is one of your friend Lily’s recipes?”
She nodded. “I was going to use one of Abby’s grandma’s recipes. She had a whole stash that she doesn’t make for sale, and I thought it might bring some attention to her business. But I couldn’t get a hold of her. Power is probably out on her mountain from the storm. I swear, it goes out on her in a stiff wind.”
“Do you want me to get someone from her local fire department to do a quick check, make sure she’s okay?”
Her expression immediately softened. “That’s so nice of you. But I heard from Lily earlier and she got a text from Abby saying she’d made it home fine. She’s used to the power going out, so I’m sure she’s okay. Oh, and Lily’s neck-deep in that cookie competition at the resort, apparently in some kind of tangle with the guy who dumped me at the grocery store.”
Will’s eyebrows lifted. “Wow.”
“I know, right? He’s a pretty good chef, too, so it’s looking like she’s got some serious competition. I didn’t want to bug her about my dinky little column when she has all that going on.”
“But she came through?”
“She tested about a hundred different recipes trying to find the ones she wanted to use in the competition. So she gave me one of her rejects—”
“You’re writing about a recipe reject?”
“It wasn’t a bad recipe when she got done with it, just not contest worthy. But perfection isn’t what I’m making the column about. It’s about how even a seasoned
chef has to work with a recipe to get it just right. Even they have cookie rejects. She let me use some of the backstory on how she got it just right and some of the rejects that happened to her along the way. It’s not exactly Lucille Ball Bakes, but it still follows the theme of the column that everybody starts somewhere and nobody is the perfect baker.”
“Sounds great. I think you’re on a roll. Have you heard from Fran yet with any feedback on your bumbling baker concept?”
“Actually, yes.” She smiled and looked a bit petrified at the same time.
“Good? Bad?”
“Terrifying, mostly.”
He sat down next to her on the couch and smiled. “So, pretty damn good then, I take it. What’s the scary part?”
“Where do I begin?”
He reached under the quilt and pulled her sock-covered feet out from where she’d tucked them under her thighs and stretched them across his lap, gently kneading up and down the soles.
She groaned and let her head tip back against the couch. It was all he could do not to growl and drag her right on top of him, but he’d wanted—no, needed—to put his hands on her, and this had seemed the safest, friends-first way he could do that. Stupid, stupid man.
After a deep, appreciative sigh, she continued the conversation, head still back, eyes still closed. “Seems like I’m not the only bumbling baker out there. My ‘humorous but eventually victorious take on baking,’ as Fran calls it, has apparently struck a chord with a number of readers.”
“That doesn’t sound scary, it sounds fantastic.”
“It’s very gratifying and hugely relieving. The scary part is, well, it’s twofold. First, she included an e-mail account for the column that went directly to the paper, to help them gauge the response to the first few columns. Fran has now transferred that account to me.”
The Sugar Cookie Sweetheart Swap Page 9