“No, because you’re a dick.”
“Fine,” he said, walking over to the fridge, “I’ll do it myself.”
Oh my god, is that a high-end subzero fridge?
Have some pride.
But the fridge…
Matt took out what looked like five pounds of high-quality European butter and pulled out a saucepan.
“What are you doing?”
“Making cookies.” He set the pan on a burner.
My eye twitched. “You’re not going to melt that butter, are you?”
“That’s what the recipe online says to do,” he replied.
Don’t get involved.
But it was very expensive butter.
Leave it.
Matt pulled out a bag of sugar and opened it. He was about to tip it into the steaming pan.
“Wait!” I yelled, running around the corner and turning off the burner. “You have to cream cold butter and sugar.”
“I thought you didn’t want to do it,” he countered.
“I can’t just sit here and watch you ruin good butter,” I grumbled. “I’m going to call reinforcements.”
I took out my phone.
“And take a shower,” I added. “Then we’re making cookies.”
“You can’t sellthese cookies for fifteen dollars,” I said to Matt, horrified as he erased what I had written on the chalkboard by the front counter.
After spending all morning baking with Matt, who helped lift heavy things, and with Olivia, who squealed about the drool-worthy appliances, I now had trays and trays of cookies ready to sell.
What if no one shows up? What if it’s me? What if I am the problem? Maybe I should leave.
“You’re right.” He nodded. “These Victorian gingerbread houses have too much detail to be the standard fifteen-dollar cookie. They need to be twenty.”
“No one is paying twenty bucks for a cookie!” I practically shrieked.
“Of course they are because they get a free ornament.”
“Oh my god.” I ate some leftover raw dough. “This is a terrible idea.”
Matt came over and wrapped his arms around me.
I leaned against him, letting his strong arms hold me up. He tipped my chin up, his eyes searching mine. Was he going to kiss me?
He leaned in, and I closed my eyes.
“Oh my god!” a woman cried. “I knew it!”
