I looked down at the delicacies in the clear plastic container that read ‘Winthrop Cookies’ and did a double take.
“You’re the owner of Winthrop Cookies?” I squeaked.
He flashed me a smile. “I am.”
“You wouldn’t happen to want to hand me a recipe for these, would you?” I teased. “I’d love you forever and ever.”
His eyes gleamed. “Maybe if you continue to come around from time to time, I just might.”
“Done,” I said. “Just order more packages, and I’ll show up more.”
He picked up two more boxes of cookies and said, “I have two more dozen extra if you want those?”
I immediately nodded. “Of course I want them.”
Winthrop Cookies was a world-renowned bakery that delivered all over the world. No one knew the face behind the cookies, because the owner was very, very private. But he was up there with Levain Bakery, and any other famous bakers all over the world.
“You know,” I mused. “I always thought you lived in New York or California. Who knew you lived in Dallas?”
Out of all the places he could live, he lived in my home town.
“I lived in both places for a time, but I made my home here in Dallas because this is where I was born and raised. My roots run deep here, and I’ll never leave Texas for long.” He looked down at his cane. “I had a stroke a few months ago, forcing me to downsize my operation. And the first place I wanted to come was home. I feel like I can breathe better here.”
My eyes twinkled. “I think all Texans feel that way about their home.”
My watch beeped, and I groaned. “I’ve been given a warning about time spent at a specific location for too long. I gotta go. But thank you for the cookies. I’m questioning whether they’ll even make it all the way home.”
“Just sayin’, but each of those cookies are five hundred calories a pop,” he joked. “Unless you plan on working out for a week straight to burn them off, I suggest you control yourself.”
We both knew that I wouldn’t, though.
Plus, it was Christmas.
Wasn’t it a rule of thumb that you had to eat until you wanted to throw up the week before, and the week after Christmas?
“Have a good day, Mr. Winthrop,” I called out as I hurried outside.
The Irish Wolfhound met me at the door, and luckily I stepped to the side or I would’ve been barreled over.
I closed the door behind me and all but ran to the truck to finish my deliveries.
I got back to the warehouse on time, and headed to my pickup directly after.
The cookies were literally burning a hole in my seat, and I couldn’t wait to try one.
I’d refrained from having one because I wanted to have some milk with them.
A cookie wasn’t a cookie without milk.
I’d just turned onto 635 when my gas light came on.
I groaned.
“Shit,” I said as I hesitated.
My truck gave me a warning when I had fifty miles left. However, mine seemed to be defective because I never, and I do mean never, made it the full fifty miles.
I found out not once, not twice, but four times now.
