Her phone pings again, and this time when she reads the message, she bites her lip.
“What?” I prompt. “What did he say?”
She turns the phone so I can see the screen.
Paul:Can’t wait to see you tomorrow. Been thinking about you all week.
“Oh,” I breathe out. “That’s...”
“Iknow,” Genna whispers, her cheeks flushing again.
“Well, these cookies better be amazing,” I say, trying to lighten the moment. “They’ve got a lot to live up to.”
Genna tucks her phone away, but I notice her glancing at it every few minutes as we continue baking. The butter has browned to a perfect nutty aroma, and we mix it with the sugars until the mixture is creamy and smooth.
“What do you think Dylan will say?” Genna asks suddenly as we fold the chocolate chips into the batter. “About me and Paul, I mean.”
I hadn’t thought about that angle. “I’m not sure. He’s always been protective of you.”
“Overprotective,” she corrects. “Remember that guy from my chemistry class? Dylan practically ran a background check on him.”
I laugh, remembering how Dylan “coincidentally” showed up at the coffee shop where Genna was having a study date. “Yeah, but Paul’s his teammate. That’s different, right? He knows Paul.”
“True,” Genna concedes. “But he’s still my big brother. And Paul is three years younger than me, which Dylan pointed out at Thanksgiving.”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine with it,” I say, though I’m not entirely convinced. Dylan can be unpredictable when it comes to his sister. “Maybe we should make him some cookies too. You know, to butter him up to the idea.”
Genna’s eyes light up. “That’sgenius! We have enough ingredients to make another batch.”
“I was kidding,” I start to say, but she’s already pulling out more butter. “Fine, more cookies it is.”
As we work on the second batch, I find myself wondering what kind of cookies Dylan would like best. Chocolate chipseems too ordinary for someone with his larger-than-life personality.
“What’s Dylan’s favorite cookie?” I ask.
Genna gives me a funny look. “Peanut butter chocolate chip. Why?”
“Just curious,” I say, focusing very intently on measuring flour. “Since we’re making him cookies and all...”
“Right,” she says slowly. “Well, lucky for you, we can just add peanut butter to this batch.”
We modify the recipe, and soon the kitchen is filled with the heavenly aroma of two different types of cookies baking in the oven. The timer ticks down, and I find myself feeling oddly nervous about how Dylan’s batch will turn out. Which is ridiculous. They’re just cookies.
Genna checks her phone again, smiling at whatever new message has come through.
“You know,” I say, leaning against the counter, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this smitten over a boy this quickly.”
She looks up, slightly embarrassed. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to someone who’s known you since middle school. But it’s nice. You deserve someone who makes you check your phone every thirty seconds and bake cookies for.”
The oven timer dings, and we both jump into action, pulling out perfectly golden cookies. They look magazine-worthy, crisp at the edges and soft in the center.
“They’re perfect,” Genna breathes, staring at them like they’re precious gems.
We transfer them carefully to cooling racks, the chocolate still molten and gooey. Once they’re cool enough, we begin packaging them—Paul’s in a festive tin with a red ribbon and Dylan’s in a simpler container.
“These are just a friendly gesture,” I say as I arrange Dylan’s cookies, not sure why I feel the need to clarify this. “Not marry me cookies.”
