She bites her lip but quickly shrugs her shoulders. “Yeah.” She holds the gallon-size baggie, which contains only one cookie and a bunch of crumbs.
“Seems you’ve had no trouble finding snacks lately.”
Her head tilts as eyelids droop. “What? Are you monitoring?”
“Only when it comes to those,” I point to the empty bag.
She holds it out. “You had an entire bag shoved in the back of the freezer. These would not be part of your strict dietary requirements. I wasn’t going to let them get freezer-burnt and go to waste. Someone went through a lot of work to make these.”
“Those,” I take a step closer, “are specially made for me. They’re my winning cookies.”
One shoulder sags a little. “Your. . .winning cookies?” Her eyes narrow, evaluating my seriousness.
This is so much better than where we’ve been today. I like these cookies even more for it.
“Yes, if I win a game, I get one of those delicious, homemade, personally crafted cookies.”
“You mean they’re like a treat. You do good, you get a cookie.”
I nod. “Sure.”
“Sounds kind of like rewarding a dog.”
There’s playfulness behind that smart-ass comment, and I freaking love it. I’d have ten dozen of them made for her if she’d continue teasing me.
She peers in the bag at the lone cookie, stuffed with oatmeal, chocolate, and peanut butter.
“You’ve eaten the entire bag ofmycookies.”
“Not the entire bag. There’s one left,” she clarifies innocently.
“We have a problem.” I take another step closer, and she watches me. “I plan to win the rest of the season, and I’ll have earned that.”
She evaluates the baggie and then me, her lips moving to the side in contemplation. “Well, seeing that there’s only one left, I should probably help break your habit now and eat it. Just one isn’t enough, and I wouldn’t want you to jeopardize your potential winning streak by suffering symptoms of withdrawal.”
I cock one eyebrow. I’ve watched the cookies dwindle, bit by bit, knowing damn well how good they are, but I want to hear her say it. “Withdrawal?”
She stands a little taller, her shoulders shifting back. “These are laced with something. A pound of butter, lard, and chocolate imported from the finest chocolatier in the world. I don’t know, but whatever it is can’t be good for your highly sensitive diet, so I’m just doing my job.”
I move closer, resting up against the counter opposite her. “Your job is to eatmywinning cookies?”
She shrugs. “It’s a real sacrifice, but I am being paid to ensure you remain safe and in tip-top playing shape.” She says it so casually, but that glimmer of a smile awakens a desire in me I’ve never known.
“Hmm. That’s an interesting job requirement.”
“There’s been all sorts of those recently,” she mumbles.
I want to push her to elaborate, but I won’t ruin another moment.
“How about you hand over the bag?”
She glances at the clear plastic and then at me. She shakes her head. “Sorry, I can’t do that. I’m saving you from. . .a stomachache.”
I laugh as she dips her hand in and pulls the cookie out, slowly bringing it to her mouth. I never want this to end.
“Jones,” I warn.
She eyes me. “Matthews, this isn’t good for you. I can’t let you have it.”
