“Chocolate chip cookies,” he says firmly. “Homemade.”
“Sounds good to me. Why don’t we stop by the store and get the ingredients?”
Ten minutes later, we’re strolling down the aisles. Jonahthrows everything that catches his fancy into the cart, and I have a hell of a time negotiating him out of the high-fructose corn syrup bombs he gravitates towards.
I throw in a week’s worth of frozen dinners for myself too. At the checkout, I pay for Jonah’s ingredients with Walker’s card, and the frozen dinners with my own card. Not that he’d notice or care about the expense, but I do.
I provide for myself.
Back at home, I go over some reading coursework for a little while with Jonah. His main issue with reading, as far as I can tell, is that he gets easily frustrated when something doesn’t come easy to him. So I try to make it jokey and fun, and he slowly relaxes and starts having fun with it too.
Then I have Jonah wash his hands and I do the same before we tackle the chocolate chip cookies. Thirty minutes in, we’re both dusted with flour and giggling. Everything goes textbook perfect, and by the time the cookies are done baking, they fill the house with a delicious smell.
Then it’s time to taste one. We both take a bite.
And I nearly spit mine out.
They’resalty. Like, absurdly, insanely salty.
“Jonah,” I say slowly, “did you add extra salt?”
He beams. “They’re salted chocolate chip, just like the bakery does! Aren’t they amazing?”
I struggle to choke one down. “I think you’re supposed to sprinkle the salt on top, my friend.”
“I like my way.”
I give him a weak smile. “As long as you’re happy with them.”
There’s the sound of a truck rolling up the road. A moment later, Walker comes through the door.
He looks like he's been outside all day. Dusty Stetson, dirty boots, a sheen of sweat at his throat. His shirt is plastered to hischest and shoulders from a full day of outdoor work, and he smells like leather and fresh wood shavings. The smell of fresh wood makes me imagine him swinging an axe and I instantly decide I don’t need to add “hot lumberjack” to my list of Walker Rhodes fantasies.
But that t-shirt is sticking to his chest in a way that makes it very hard to concentrate on measuring chocolate chips.
I glance at the clock. It’s only four. He’s home early. Checking up on the new nanny?
Jonah runs to him. “Dad!”
Walker catches him and swings him up into a hug. “Smells amazing in here.”
“Sadie and I made cookies!”
As he takes off his cowboy hat, he looks at me. “Did you now?”
“We’re expert bakers,” Jonah confirms. “Just like Loretta at the bakery downtown. Want to try one?”
“All right, then,” he says.
As he picks one up, I lean in to murmur in his ear so Jonah can’t hear. I get close enough to feel the heat coming off his skin. “They’re the best thing you’ve ever tasted. Swallow every bit and say thank you.”
His eyes flare briefly. They flicker to my mouth and away again.
I guess you could take what I said a certain kind of way. If you have a dirty mind.
Which clearly Walker does.
And maybe I do too.
