Page 72 of Trap ’N’ Trace

“Nothing fancy? That’s quite an accomplishment.” She leaned over the cookie rack and inhaled. “They smell amazing. Chocolate chip?”

He nodded. “Yep. Mom said every chef needs a good chipper recipe.”

“Francine tried teaching me to bake.” She scrunched up her face at the memory of her very blackened, very failed attempt at making brownies. “It didn’t take.”

“My baking is adequate.” Using a spatula, he transferred the cookies to a cooling rack. “Lily’s skills are out of bounds.”

“Her cake last night was decadent. I’ll be having chocolate mousse dreams for weeks.” He slathered one side of a cookie with frosting then sandwiched it with another. “You made frosting, too?” Her mouth watered. She dug her finger into the bowl then licked off the fluffy white icing, closing her eyes and moaning. “That’s good. Really good.”

She opened her eyes. Dayne stared at her finger then licked his lips and swallowed. “Uh. Yeah. Thanks,” he muttered, and went back to slapping more cookie sandwiches together.

It was brief, but there was no missing the unspoken heat and emotion in his eyes. She’d felt it, too. That attraction, magnetic pull, or whatever it was that hung between them and refused to go away no matter how much they denied it.

He took his plate and a tall glass of milk into the living room then sat on the sofa and turned up the volume. “I hope you don’t mind if I watch in here. Your 80-incher is too good to waste.”

“Not at all.” Considering her rude behavior earlier, it was the least she could do. “As long as you don’t mind if I join you.” She followed him and sat on the other side of the sofa.

His brows rose. “You’re a baseball fan?”

“Not just a baseball fan. A Yankees fan.” She paused at the look of skepticism on his face. “What, girls aren’t allowed to like baseball?”

“I didn’t say that.” He bit off half a cookie sandwich and chewed. “I’m just surprised,” he said around a mouthful of cookie.

“Well, don’t be.” She proceeded to tell him of her family’s opening-day tradition.

“Luxury suite, huh?” He arched a brow.

“Yes, but I sold it.”

His face contorted. “Why?”

“It was something we shared as a family. After my parents died, it wasn’t the same without them.”

He watched her for a moment, saying nothing. “That sounds like a nice tradition. I’ve only been in one of those suites once. I felt like I’d died and gone to baseball heaven.”

She reached for a cookie, but he snatched the plate away.

“Get your own. These are mine.”

She counted quickly. “All ten cookie sandwiches are yours?”

“I need my snacks. I’m a big boy.” He shoved another cookie into his mouth, washing it down with a gulp of milk.

Yes, you are. He’d rolled his dress shirtsleeves to just below his elbows, exposing thick, flexing forearms. Instead of ogling him, she should be thankful they were talking again. Otherwise, living under the same roof until this was over would be a living, breathing hell.

“You’re not serious about hoarding all those cookies,” she chided. “Are you?”

He took a deep breath. “I’ll let you have some on one condition.”

She crossed her arms. “What’s that?”

Humor twinkled in his eyes. “You fix the next batch.”

“Deal. Now hand them over.” She held out her hand and he presented her with the plate. After carefully selecting the two biggest cookie sandwiches, she placed her bare feet on the coffee table.

“Is that a tradition, too?” He indicated her feet.

She nodded enthusiastically as more of the tension between them eased. “You’re welcome to join me.”