I can’t help it, I move closer to her and trace my thumb across her chin. “That I forgot how? Nah.” I shake my head. “Truth is, I take yours with me and the guys when we go feed the hungry around the holidays. The folks at the shelter love them. It’s for a good cause and they deserve a sweet treat in their lives. If there are any left over, I selfishly save them for myself. There usually aren’t many left over though,” I chuckle.
Her entire face softens. “You…I…Hayes,” her voice cracks and she swipes a stray tear from her cheek. “If you told me that, I’d donate the cookies!” Emmy slaps my chest.
“You’re running a business, Em. I can afford to buy a few dozen cookies to donate and support afriendat the same time.”
Her lips part, trembling just a hair. “I think we both know you’re more than just a friend, Hayes.”
The words pull the breath right out of my chest. And I know—I know—she didn’t mean it like that. Not intentionally. There’s no way.
She realizes what she’s said a second later and clears her throat hard, stepping back like being this close to me is too much. “I just mean—you’re like family. You always have been. You’re good and kind. Even when life hasn’t been.”
My jaw clenches. There are a dozen things I want to say—none of which I feel like I’m allowed to. So I do the safe thing.
I lift the order slip and tap it. “So. Cookies. You gonna let me help or are we gonna stand here making each other cry like two sentimental grandmas?”
That earns me a watery laugh. “Fine,” she sniffles. “Six dozen it is. But if you burn evenone?—”
“Emmy, I’m offended. I’m a professional.”
“At firefighting,” she says, hands on her hips.
“And cookie-making.”
“You’re not allowed to have two professions if one of them is literally saving lives, Hayes.”
“Watch me.”
She tries to hide her smile but fails spectacularly. “Ugh. You’re impossible.”
“Part of my charm.”
“Wrong. That’s part of yourproblem.”
“Pretty sure my only problem is you never believe in my baking abilities.”
She throws a dishtowel at me. “Your baking abilities are a myth.”
I catch the towel and grin. “You wound me.”
“Youhaveto follow the recipe exactly. No improvising. Those kids are allergic to everything under the sun.”
“Relax,” I say, brushing a knuckle lightly along her arm as I pass her to get to the industrial mixer. “I’m not trying to send anyone into anaphylactic shock.”
She narrows her eyes. “Hayes, I mean it. No nuts. No almond extract. No weird stuff you saw on TikTok.”
I grin over my shoulder. “Emmy, sweetheart, the day I take baking tips from TikTok, please put me out of my misery.”
She makes a face at “sweetheart,” and I pretend not to notice the way her cheeks pink.
I wash my hands, grab the metal bowl, and start measuring flour like I haven’t been doing this since we were twelve and trying to steal cookie dough before Pappy could whack our knuckles with his wooden spoon.
Emmy moves into her own rhythm beside me—pulling butter from the fridge, softening it in the microwave, rummaging through drawers for her measuring spoons. I know this dance. I knowherin a kitchen. It’s been years, but it comes back instantly.
She’s focused on browning the butter and sugar, so she doesn’t see me reach into the pocket of my jacket draped over the chair. Doesn’t see the tiny bottle of maple extract I palm, the same brand Pappy used when he made his pancake syrup every Christmas.
Just a dash. Barely enough to scent the air.
I tilt the bottle over the mixing bowl, flick my wrist, and the smallest drop falls in. Warm, woodsy. Familiar.
