Shawn:Make him your brownies! That’s the only sweet thing I’ve seen him overconsume
Shawn:He’s allergic to shellfish! Don’t put shrimp in the brownies!!!
Me:I use a box mix for the brownies
Me:With a few extra things
Me:But not shrimp
Shawn:Extra things like…cocaine?
The memory of bantering with my brother threatens to bring a smile to my face as I linger in my car in the airport parking lot. In the passenger seat sits a paper plate with a stack of my spicy dark chocolatebrownies. Buying sweets from a bakery, or even the diner, is pricier than making them myself, so I tend to make my own. In high school, I started doctoring the box mix by adding a dash of cayenne pepper. Then, instead of mixing in dark chocolate chips, I waited until I’d poured the batter into the eight-by-eight pan and carefully placed them, so the dashes of dark chocolate would be evenly distributed.
Ta-da! Cheap, decadent dessert.
Handing George a crumpled five-dollar bill would be mortifying, no matter how hard I worked for it. Offering him a plate of brownies worth the same amount somehow seems less pathetic.
As long as Shawn wasn’t wrong about him liking them. I don’t know when George even had a chance to eat my baked goods.
Shawn was probably just trying to make me feel better.
If George turns his nose up at these, I’ll…
Honestly, I’ll probably sit alone in my car and eat them all myself.
Steeling my spine, I climb out of my car and into the cool spring day, then make my way toward the hangar with the treats carefully cradled against my chest.
George stands in the bright sunshine, aviators blocking his eyes, his head bent as he reads whatever is on the clipboard in front of him. A black, long-sleeved shirt fits him snugly, and the same with his jeans. He doesn’t look like a guy who works for a billion-dollar company.
But damn, does he look good.
“Hey,” I call out as I approach.
His head jerks up, and I could swear his mouth tightens like he’s trying not to frown.
Off to a great start.
“I brought you these.” I thrust the plate toward him.
“Brownies?”
“Yeah. I make them a special way. Spicy and with dark chocolate. Shawn says he likes them, and I think he was telling the truth, but healways says things so enthusiastically it’s hard to tell.” My arms quiver, still holding the offering out between us because George hasn’t moved to accept them.
Well, looks like Shawn was wrong.
Mortification flushes my cheeks as I take a step back, planning on sprinting to my car to stuff the brownies in the backseat to be consumed all at once when this awkward event is over. “You don’t have to—”
“I want them.”
The next thing I know, my arms are empty and George is cradling the paper plate in one hand.
“Oh. Cool.” I wipe my suddenly sweaty palms on my jeans. “There’s no shrimp in them.”
What the ever-loving hell is wrong with me?
George’s mouth twitches again. “Is there usually?”
“No.”
