Evie snorts. “You can barely handle boiling water without supervision.”
“That was one time,” he mutters.
“Wait,” I give Evie that same questioning glance she’s mastered. “How would you know?”
She waves her hand in the air. “Irrelevant.”
Hayes chuckles.
“Mmhm. I’m on to you Evie Lynn.”
Hayes steps forward with confidence. “It’s not hard. I’ll walk you through it.”
Evie glances sharply between the three of us—me, Hayes, Gideon—like she’s watching pieces slide into a pattern she doesn’t quite understand yet. Her gaze lingers on me the longest. Suspicious. Curious. Maybe a little too knowing.
I ignore her.
Mostly.
Gideon claps his hands. “Coach me, man. I’ll be the best cookie assistant you’ve ever had.”
Hayes nods once. “Let’s do it.”
Hayes’s eyes flick to mine for just a split second—just long enough to silently sayyou’re okay, breathe—before he gestures Gideon toward the counter. Evie hops up onto a stool like she has front-row seats to her favorite soap opera.
I can feel her staring holes through my soul.
“So,” she says, voice low and pointed, “anything you want to tell me?”
“Nope.” I bustle around with a speed that should qualify as suspicious all on its own.
“Uh-huh.” Her heels swing off the edge of the stool. “Because when I walked in, the tension was so thick I could spread it on toast.”
I freeze, tray halfway to the fridge.
She wiggles her eyebrows.
“Evie.” I press a hand to my forehead. “Please, for the love of all things holly and jolly…behave.”
“I am behaving. Badly, but still.” She grins.
“You’re supposed to be washing cookie trays.”
“Later,” she shrugs.
On the other side of the kitchen, Hayes and Gideon are halfway through the recipe.
Gideon is reading the ingredient list like it’s a foreign language. Hayes keeps shifting the bowl closer to him, correcting his measurements, brushing past him to reach what he needs.
He fitsherein my borrowed kitchen way too easily.
And that…does things to me.
“Emmy?” Evie sing-songs. “You’re staring.”
“I’m supervising.”
“You’re ogling.”
