His name doesn’t sting as much as it did a week ago.
Progress.
“I’m your best friend. You’re allowed to have good things happening even when I’m sad.” I bump her with my hip. “So ... Paul, huh? The one with the ocean eyes, as you put it?”
Genna groans, covering her face with her hands, leaving a smudge of flour on her forehead. “Don’t remind me. I sounded so ridiculous.”
“I thought it was cute,” I tease, reaching for an apron hanging on a hook by the fridge. It’s red with white snowflakes, a holiday gift from Mrs. Williamston years ago. I tie it around my waist and roll up my sleeves. “So, what are we making for Ocean Eyes?”
“Chocolate chip cookies,” Genna says, her voice tinged with worry. “But what if he hates chocolate chip? What if he’s one of those weird people who likes oatmeal raisin better? Or what if he’s allergic to chocolate and I send him into anaphylactic shock before our first actual date?”
I can’t help but laugh at her spiral. “First of all, no oneprefersoatmeal raisin. That’s a myth perpetuated by grandmothers, I think. Second, I’m pretty sure severe allergies would be mentioned in his NHL bio.”
“You don’t know that,” she argues, but she’s smiling now. “Maybe it’s a mild allergy. Maybe he just gets a little itchy.”
“Then he can scratch his hives while he enjoys your delicious cookies,” I say, checking the recipe she has pulled up. “Is this your mom’s recipe?”
“No.” Genna’s voice drops to a near whisper. “I actually found it online. It has, like, brown butter and sea salt and stuff. Apparently, it’s supposed to be foolproof for making someone fall in love with you.”
I stare at her for a moment before bursting into laughter. “Oh my gosh, Genna Williamston, are you makingmarry me cookiesfor a professional hockey player?”
“Stop!” She swats at me with a dish towel, but she’s laughing too. “I know it’s stupid. But they’re supposed to be really good cookies.”
“Well then,” I say, regaining my composure, “let’s see if they work.”
We fall into our familiar rhythm, moving around each other in the kitchen like we’ve done a thousand times before. Holiday music plays softly from the speaker in the corner—Mariah Carey belting about what she wants for Christmas, as if there were any other acceptable soundtrack for December baking.
Jhett watches us from his bed in the corner, his eyes tracking every movement, especially when butter is involved.
“Not for dogs,” I tell him firmly, but his tail still thumps against the floor optimistically.
The afternoon light streams through our kitchen window, casting everything in a warm glow that makes the whole scene feel like we’re in some kind of holiday commercial. For a moment, I’m struck by how normal this feels—how good it feels to be doing something so ordinary after weeks of emotional chaos.
“So,” I say, measuring out flour while Genna browns butter on the stove. “Tell me about these texts from Paul. Anything juicy?”
She bites her lip, trying and failing to suppress a smile. “Nothing scandalous. Just ... nice. He’s funny. Not like Dylan-funny, where it’s all jokes and pranks, but quiet-funny. Like he thinks about what he says.”
“The strong, silent type.” I nod approvingly. “And does this strong, silent rookie know you’re baking him cookies?”
“Of course not!” Genna looks horrified at the thought. “I was planning to surprise him with them at the game. Like a normal, casual thing that normal, casual people do.”
“Totally normal. I always bring home-baked goods to sporting events. It’s the standard stadium snack.”
Genna reaches over and smears flour on my nose. “You’re the worst.”
“You love me,” I remind her.
Her phone pings, and she practically lunges for it, nearly knocking over the bowl of brown sugar. Her eyes scan the screen, and a slow smile spreads across her face.
“Paul?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
She nods, typing rapidly in reply to his text. “He wants to know if we need a ride to the arena tomorrow. Says he can arrange for a car service.”
“Fancy,” I comment. “What are you going to tell him?”
She finishes typing before looking up. “I said yes. I hope that’s okay? It’s just, parking at the arena is a nightmare, and—”
“It’s fine,” I assure her. “A car service sounds great.”
