By the time she turns back, I’m adding the chocolate chips like a damn saint.
“See?” I say lightly. “No nuts. No danger. Just nostalgia.”
She eyes me skeptically, scanning the ingredients. “Mm-hm. If a single kid breaks out in hives, I’m blaming you.”
“Fair enough.” I bump her hip with mine, and warmth shoots up my side like I touched a live wire. “But they won’t. Promise.”
The short list of allergens on the order slip assures me that a little maple won’t be hurting anyone.
She rolls her eyes and sets the mixer to stir. “You better not be trying to one-up me with your cookies. I have a reputation, Hayes.”
“Oh, I know.” I lean on the counter, watching the dough spin. “Your cookies are sacred. But I think the kindergarteners can handle a little friendly competition.”
“They’refive.”
“Exactly. The toughest critics.”
She snorts, but she’s smiling. Big, bright, smile-all-the-way-to-her-eyes smiling and then she’s back to moving around me. She hums without realizing it, soft and soothing, the way she does when she’s falling back into her rhythm.
God, I love watching her like this.
Focused.
In her element.
Light pouring out of her like the North star. She doesn’t even know she glows.
I measure the butter by feel—earned practice, years in the making.
“You’re not using the scale,” she accuses, horrified.
“Scales are for people without instincts.”
“Instincts don’t keep dough from turning into soup.”
“Mine do.”
“You’re infuriating.”
“And yet,” I say, leaning just close enough she feels it, “you let me in your kitchen.”
Her breath catches.
Barely.
But I feel it.
This dance we’re doing is dangerous. Tethering on the edge of something that can be amazing or burn us both to the ground.
She steps back, cheeks flushed. “Did you at least preheat the oven?”
“I’m not a monster,” I say, sliding trays onto the warming rack.
She watches me mix the dough with her arms folded. Her eyes go soft. Warmer than any oven in this place.
And for a heartbeat—just one—it feels like she might step closer. Might ask. Might want what I want. But then she blinks hard, shaking herself out of whatever moment just passed.
“I hate you,” she says, amusement lacing her words.
