He gestures at me with a spatula. “Correction.We’rebaking cookies. You just didn’t know it yet.”
“It’s September.” I lean against the doorframe, my arms folded. “Why does it smell like Santa has been stress-baking?”
Dillon’s grin widens. He’s tall, broad, the best hacker in the business, and he looks like he could sell trouble by the pound, yet somehow, he’s as comfortable in a pink apron as a soldier in tactical gear.
“Relax, boss man,” he drawls. “This is just my charm in edible form, but if Santa calls in sick this year, at least we know I’ll be ready to cover for him.”
I roll my eyes. “Check the time, Gordon Ramsay. It’s smack-dab in the middle of our workday.”
“Exactly,” he says. “Also known as prime cookie hour. You’re welcome.”
“You have problems.”
“Yeah.” He smirks. “But I’m also about to have cookies.”
Sighing as I push away from the door, I walk to the fridge and pull out a bottle of water. “I’ve got to head into town. Do we need anything?”
“Take some cookies to Lisa at the market,” Dillon says, turning back to the oven.
“Men don’t deliver cookies.”
He shoots me a look over his shoulder. “Men who like Lisa do.”
“Sure, but I don’t like Lisa.” I grunt and shake my head. “We already agreed she’s not the one, Dill.”
“Maybe she could be.” He winks and bends over, donning a pink mitt before sliding the tray from the oven. “She could’ve changed. Matured. It’s been a couple of years.”
“I’m pretty sure people don’t change who they are once they hit their thirties. Plus, she wants a guy who doesn’t live on top of a mountain with two other dudes.”
Dillon smiles as he straightens up. “Yeah, well, I’ve got layers. Like an onion. A sexy onion.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“You never know. Maybe we judged her too harshly.” He grabs a cookie off the tray, blows on it, and offers it to me. “Just try it. Come on. It’ll put you in a better mood.”
“I don’t eat things that have sarcasm baked into them.”
He takes a dramatic bite, chewing while he talks. “Fine, but it’s your loss, big guy. Maybe you’d smile more if you had a little sugar in your system.”
When I don’t answer, he shrugs those broad shoulders, cocking a hip against the counter, blue eyes shining with mirth. “Someday you’re gonna thank me for keeping things interesting.”
“Doubt it.” I grab my keys off the hook. “Remember to turn the oven off when you’re done, and for the love of God, stop flirting with ideas we’ve already scrapped.”
“No promises.”
I turn to grab my jacket when he adds, “Bring back milk. We’re out.”
Turning on my heel, I leave him there with his cookies, the scent of butter trailing after me. The drive into town takes twenty minutes on a quiet highway, the road carving through pine and patches of sunshine. The valley spreads out below like a multicolored blanket, green interspersed with spots of yellow, red, and brown.
It’s the kind of view people pay money to see.
Eventually, nature gives way to development, and the outskirts of town come into view around the next bend. The familiar sign that proclaims we have a population of 5,556 speeds past, and, as always, I wonder when they were going to update that number.
Tourism has brought in a few newcomers, people who bought up and renovated old lodges and hotels.
When I finally reach the community center, the parking lot is empty except for three other cars. Eager to get this over with, I park right by the door and climb out, walking into the building and inhaling the scent of floor wax that always seems to hang in the air.
“Boone Callaghan,” Mara, the woman behind the desk, says, her smile a little too wide. “You didn’t have to come all the way down here.”
