Page 17 of Rose's Ripped Van Winkle

By the time the ingredients are thoroughly blended, my mouth is already watering. Rip scoops the dough into mounds onto two baking sheets and puts them in the oven.

While the black and whites bake, I watch Rip move around the kitchen with a certain grace and ease. I could stare at him for hours, although that's what's on the menu for later tonight—if I have any say in the matter.

Finally, the timer dings and I pull the cookies out of the oven. They smell amazing and I can hardly wait to try them.

When Rip grabs the spatula and begins to pry the cookies off the sheet, I playfully slap his hand.

“Didn't your mother teach you to let them cool before you take them off the cookie sheet? Otherwise, they smoosh.”

“See? This is why we're great together. You're the yin to my yang… or is it the other way around?”

He immediately looks sheepish, as if he overstepped.

“Potato, potahto, who cares, mister?” I hate that he sometimes acts as though he’s offended me. Maybe genteel women spent half their lives acting offended a hundred years ago. To smooth the waters, I give his hand a playful slap with the plastic spatula and scold, “You're going to wait until they're cool.”

This gives me an idea.

“You have such an amazing voice, Rip. Let's sing a few songs while we wait. It will be an extension of today's lesson in popular culture.”

I launch into “Eye of the Tiger,” and he joins in, although his version is “Eye of the Spider.” “Hey Jude,” becomes “Hey Dude,” and “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” becomes “Wake Me Up Before You Cocoa.” He even grabs the container of cocoa that’s still on the counter and dances with it like it’s a comedy routine.

I have a feeling after his first accidental mistake, his mix-ups became more outrageous on purpose just to make me laugh. We’re having so much fun, we almost forget about the cookies.

Eventually, our laughing ends and we sing the chorus to “My Wild Irish Rose,” with me singing alto and Rip singing tenor. Our voices entwine, creating harmony that’s beautiful even when it’s slightly off-key.

We make quick work of the frosting portion of the adventure, still singing and occasionally bumping hips in time with the music.

When I look at our finished products, I feel a pang of discomfort. Instead of looking like the ones on the Internet and having perfect lines where the black and white frosting meets in the middle, they’re jumbled and messy.

My mom’s voice is scolding me in the back of my mind until I glance at Rip, who’s smiling indulgently at me.

“Who said they had to look perfect?” I announce forcefully. “And why did I scold you for wanting to taste them while they were warm?”

I grab one, step closer, and lift it to his lips. “Tell me what you think,” I say, fully expecting him to finally taste the darn thing.

He shakes his head. “Nope. Together.”

The cookies are meant to be huge. The recipe said they should be a full four and a half inches in diameter. It’s easy for us to lean toward each other with me gripping one side of the cookie and him gripping the other. Both of us take a bite out of the middle, getting the perfect combo of chocolate and vanilla at the same time.

The frosting is still gooey, and when we step back, both of us have some on our lips.

The fun moment morphs into something different, something more, something serious.

At the same moment, we realize what’s happening and pull away, both staring wide-eyed. My heart is thumping and my lips pop open in the slightest gasp as desire skitters through me, setting my senses on fire.

“Rose,” Rip breathes, and I can see the intensity in his eyes.

Before I can even process what’s happening, he takes a step closer and crashes his lips onto mine. His arms wrap around me and tug me close.

Everything else fades away, like I’m in a vacuum with only him, his kiss, his touch, his piercing gaze.

We break away for a moment, gasping for air, but soon our lips are clashing again, this time with even more passion and heat. He’s chocolate and vanilla and pure elemental heat. How can his lips be soft and insistent at the same time?

He nibbles and plucks with his lips as his arm surrounds my waist and tucks me closer. His other hand is sliding through my hair as he murmurs, “So soft. Rose, like spun silk.”

When he releases a breath, it’s shaky and filled with passion.

It’s as though I’ve never been kissed before, like Rip is teaching me a whole new language of physical desire. And I’m a willing student.

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