The difference between crossing the finish line in first place or second place was usually a matter of millimeters.
And the difference between “horribly late” and “let’s just reschedule” was nearly always separated by Rachel’s underestimation of time management.
“Rach?” her best friend Molly called from downstairs. “C’mon, hustle up. We’re going to be late.”
Yes, they were. But what was she supposed to say when James had needed an extra hour this afternoon? She did what she always did. Solved. The. Freaking. Problem.
“Coming,” Rachel hollered, hoping her voice carried out the door and down the staircase.
“Late,” Molly called back.
“Two seconds,” Rachel called again. Rubbing the remnants of concealer over the dark bags that seemed to have permanent residence under her eyes, she quickly pulled her hair up into a twist, securing it with some corkscrew bobby pins her mother-in-law insisted she try.
Former mother-in-law.
The meemaw to her twin boys.
The momster who usually always got whatever she wanted, even though Rachel couldn’t quite figure out how she did it.
A quick pop on the scale on her way out of the bathroom and she’d be on her way. One swift step. She could do this. Gah. She hated this part of the day.
She closed her eyes when the digital display blinked, and she considered whether the three cookies she’d eaten after lunch were going to prove to ruin her afternoon. Deep breath and she opened her eyes, glancing down.
Shit.
Damn, that thing was being a total asshole.
For the record, she’d eat the cookies again just to spite it.
Also, they were really yummy and a gift from a client.
They’d arrived at her doorstep warm—with bonus ice cream—and what was she supposed to do? They were meant to be eaten warm. So she ate them…warm. That was what one did with divine cookies.
“Rachel, seriously,” Molly called, but her tone sounded as though she’d just discovered the remnants of a dozen warm cookies from Heather’s Cookie Co. on the dining room table, and she didn’t really care if they were that late.
Double crapola.
“Don’t eat those,” Rachel shouted, grabbing her favorite sling-back black sandals on her way out of her bedroom, her toes sinking only briefly in the carpet because she was on a sprint.
Dammit, Molly was as good as Rachel for spiderlike senses around carbohydrates and sugar. Rachel should’ve put them away. Of course, her best friend would find the residual cookies.
But Rachel had plans for them—there were four left. Two for each of her boys.
If Molly ate one, then there would be only three and that meant an argument that Rachel did not want to referee. So if Molly ate one, then Rachel would have to eat one,
but she’d already had plenty, and she didn’t really want the scale to be more of an asshole because her best friend ate a cookie.
That made sense, right?
“Seriously, Molly, don’t eat that.” Rachel took the steps two at a time, skidding around the bottom of the bannister, deftly stepping over errant Legos scattered like land mines, past the corner of the office she’d set up there.
Yes, she could cut the third cookie in half for the boys. While that might teach them a lesson in sharing, it brought more challenges and probably the food scale to get an exact weight so things were precisely fair.
So it’d just be easier if?—
She scooted around the corner into the dining room where the box lay open on the table.
Cookie in hand, Molly’s dark curls bobbed against the exposed pale skin of her shoulder as she turned to Rachel. Rachel, who had reached the room three seconds too late.
