“After we unload,” I said, smiling at the offer. “Work first, questionable cookies second.”
“Fair.”
We fell into an easy rhythm, making trips back and forth from my SUV to the parlor. Luke didn’t try to fill the silence with small talk, which I appreciated. When I started arranging the supplies in a specific order—ribbon here, wire there, foam bricks stacked by size—he watched for a moment, then simply followed my lead. No suggestions about a more efficient way to organize my supplies. No mansplaining my own process back to me. He just helped.
It was shockingly refreshing.
By the time we’d unloaded everything, I’d stopped overthinking every interaction and just relaxed. Luke was easy to work with. He listened when I explained what I needed, helped without getting in the way, and didn’t pepper me with questions about whether I was sure I wanted things arranged “that way.”
No. I was not thinking about Eric right now.
“Okay,” I said, brushing off my hands. “That’s everything.”
Luke surveyed the organized chaos in his parlor. “Now that that’s taken care of, can I interest you in some potentially edible cookies?”
I checked my phone. I didn’t have another client until four, and honestly, the idea of sitting in Luke’s warm kitchen eating cookies sounded infinitely better than going back to my drafty workshop.
“You know what? Let’s risk it.”
He straightened slightly, and his whole face transformed—the tentative, careful expression he’d worn since I arrived giving way to a smile that was bright and unguarded and maybe a little bit devastating.
“Yeah?” he asked, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
Uh oh. I was in so much trouble.
“Yeah.”
“Come on. Let’s see if I managed not to poison us.”
As we stepped into the kitchen, Luke gestured for me to sit at the small table by the window while he grabbed a plate of cookies from the counter. Snickerdoodles,” he said, setting the plate down. “Or, that’s what they were supposed to be at least.”
I took one and bit into it. The texture was a little dense, and they could have baked for another minute, but it was buttery and sweet, with just the right amount of cinnamon.
“These are good,” I said honestly.
“You don’t have to lie to make me feel better.”
“I’m not. The flavor’s good. A little dense, maybe. Did you cream the butter and sugar long enough?”
He blinked at me. “I … don’t know? I mixed them until they looked combined.”
“Well, there you go. You have to beat them for like three minutes, until the batter looks fluffy. That incorporates air, which makes the cookies lighter.”
“Huh.” He looked at the cookies with renewed interest. “I didn’t know that. The recipe didn’t say.”
“Baking is chemistry. You can’t just follow the steps—you have to understand why you’re doing each step and how that will impact the end result.”
“Spoken like someone who actually knows how to bake.”
I laughed. “My mom taught me. We used to make like a thousand Christmas cookies every year. Snickerdoodles, sugar cookies, gingerbread, these Polish things called chrusciki that are basically fried dough covered in powdered sugar …” I trailed off, remembering those afternoons in my parents’ kitchen, flour everywhere, Christmas music playing, my mom patiently showing me how to roll out dough.
“You okay?” Luke asked quietly, breaking into memories of happier times.
I blinked and realized I’d zoned out, the half-eaten cookie still in my hand. “Yeah. Sorry. Just remembering.”
He didn’t push for more information, just nodded and took a cookie for himself.
We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, and I found myself watching him methodically turn the cookie to examine it from different angles before taking another bite, a slight furrow between his brows, like he was conducting a scientific analysis of flour-to-sugar ratios.
