He’s grinning from ear to ear as he leans against the doorway of the kitchen. “Heard the music. Thought I’d come see what we were celebrating.”
He pushes off the doorframe to come inside, but I hold up my hand. “Uh-uh. You’re covered in grease.”
He looks down at his hands, a smirk on his face. “Got the trolley up and running, though.”
I snicker as my head still bobs a bit to the music. “I bet he’s loving that.”
“If I wash my hands,” he says as he wipes at them with a rag from his overalls pocket, “can I keep watching you dance around the kitchen?”
My cheeks flush at his words. “If you’re quiet. I need to concentrate.”
He chuckles. “So, you can concentrate with music blasting, but not with me talking?”
“Absolutely,” I say as I turn and dust the countertop with flour. “Music is different. Music helps me focus. Words pull me into a conversation, and that takes my focus away from what I’m doing.”
The sink kicks on. “Read you loud and clear, Sunshine.”
I pour the pastry dough onto the flour and gently work it just enough to turn it into a disc. I move it back to the oiled bowl so that it can rest before I work with it again. I check on the cookies cooling on the countertop, holding my hand over them to test their warmth. Not quite set yet.
The music pumps through me, bobbing my head and moving my shoulders as I bebop from task to task. I almost forget Knox is in the kitchen with me.
Almost, anyway.
“Does Pickles ever get to taste your creations?”
I whip my attention over to him and see him scratching Pickles behind the ear. It makes me smile. “When it’s safe. This one won’t be safe, though.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s got chocolate in it. Dogs can’t have chocolate.”
“Ah. Well, good thing I can.”
I giggle softly. “Is that your way of saying you want a taste?”
“Of course, Sunshine. It smells amazing in here.”
I hear Pickles’ tail thumping softly against the kitchen floor as the oven dings. The first round of orange and chocolate pastries are ready to be taken out. I slip on my oven mitts and walk over, opening the hot oven door and allowing the air to pour over me. I reach in and remove the pan, and already I can see one that has overflowed.
“I’ve got the perfect one for you to try,” I say as I set the tray on top of the stove.
Pickles moves when Knox moves. The two of them come over to me while I use one of the spatulas to remove the overfilled pastry. I slip it onto a paper towel and hand it to Knox, the pastry dough steaming with heat. Pickles licks his lips, but I just give my German shepherd a look.
“You can’t have chocolate, buddy,” I say as I remove my hand from the oven mitt and pet down his back. “Sorry, big guy.”
His ears sink against his head as he growls under his breath.
“I’ll make you a special treat later,” I whisper to him while Knox chomps into the pastry. “Go lay down. Lay down, Pickles.”
My dog grumbles again before turning and making his way back to the little corner he’s claimed for himself.
Such a pouter.
“Oh. My. God,” Knox groans. “This is better than those pastries I used to fish out of the dumpster on Friday nights.”
I pause at his words. “What?”
“Mm, mm, mm. You got another one you want to give away over there?”
