I scrub a hand through my hair, probably dusting it with flour and check my phone for the third time in as many minutes.
What if she changes her mind? Fell asleep? Decided that whatever this is between us was a lapse in judgment. That I’m not worth the trouble.
The door opens.
I look up, and Winnie stands there wearing leggings and an oversized Huckleberry Hill Parks & Rec sweatshirt featuring a giant squirrel holding an acorn. It’s two sizes too big. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, face scrubbed clean of makeup, eyes slightly red like she’s been crying.
She is so beautiful, I’m reduced to single syllables. “Hi.”
“Hi,” she says softly.
We stare at each other across the bakery. All the smooth things I planned to say evaporate like steam. I want to close the distance between us, pull her into my arms, promise her everything will be okay, even though I don’t know what’s wrong or how to fix it.
But that’s not what she needs right now. She needs normal. Easy. Something that doesn’t require her to be “on” or perfect or anything other than just Winnie.
“I’m trying a new recipe. Can’t get the frosting right.”
“You want me to help you bake?”
“I want—” The truth retreats.
I want you. Always.
But I can’t say that. Not yet. Not when she looks this fragile. I try again, building steam. “I want you here. With me. Baking together. Talking. I don’t know. Whatever it is people do when they’re not working or pretending they don’t like each other.”
A smile whispers across her face. “Interesting concept.”
“I’m full of them.”
She walks toward me and I track every step. The way her fingers twist together nervously. The slight hesitation beforeshe reaches the counter. The moment she spots the mess of bowls, measuring cups, and ingredient containers spread out.
“This looks like my office,” she says.
“Your office has chocolate?”
“Only in the back of my drawer. Mindy is sneaky, so I have to hide it.”
I chuckle and hand her a spoon covered in chocolate frosting. “Try this and tell me what’s wrong with it. I think something is missing.”
She takes the spoon, brings it to her lips, and I do not watch the way her mouth closes around it. I tell myself to remain professional, focused on the recipe.
I fail.
“It’s good,” she says after a moment. “But it needs something. More salt, maybe? Just a pinch.”
“Good thinking.” I add salt to the bowl, mix it thoroughly, then offer her another taste. Our fingers brush as she takes the spoon.
This time, her eyes close as she tastes it. “So close to perfect.”
“But?”
She bites her lip. “Have you thought about adding a dash of espresso powder? It adds depth of flavor while elevating it at the same time.”
My chin lowers. “That’s brilliant.”
“I’ve been an accomplice in more than one Great Brownie Battle.”
I go to the pantry and find a small glass container and then add a pinch. We both try the frosting again. Once more, her eyes close, but this time she lets out a small sound, telling me everything I need to know.
