Page 30 of Lace 'em Up

But instead of going to the guest room, I move to the fridge, pull out the bowl of cookie dough I made earlier when I was feeling energetic and spritely and…

Then had run out of steam.

I’d made a half-hearted attempt at covering it with plastic wrap, but now I pull that off, move to the oven and turn it back on.

King has a well-stocked kitchen for a bachelor, and I open the drawer beneath the oven, extract a pair of cookie sheets.

One of which I load up with my Everything dough.

M&Ms, peanut butter chips, bits of marshmallow, crunched-up graham crackers, sprinkles—basically everything and the kitchen sink.

A.k.a. every sugar-filled, calorie-laden deliciousness.

And hot, gooey, straight-out-of-the-oven Everything cookies are the perfect remedy for a shitty day.

Something that proves Chrissy knows me too well because she’d brought the supplies yesterday, knew that at some point in the near future, I’d need the power of Everything cookies.

My heart squeezes.

I’m lucky—despite everything, I’m lucky.

“Lucky,” I whisper, holding that thought close as I slide the tray into the oven and set the timer.

Then I snag the other baking sheet and fill it with balls of dough, and when the timer goes, I remove the golden-brown cookies from the oven, swapping it for the tray loaded with the unbaked ones. And then I repeat the process—roll, bake, remove, put on the rack to cool—until all of the dough is used up and the kitchen is filled with the delicious smell of Everything cookies.

Do I sample?

Hell yes, I do.

But do I also load a plate with five huge, hot cookies when I pull that final baking sheet out?

Yup.

Leaving the others to cool, I snag the plate and ignore the fact that my heart is beating fast enough to make me dizzy.

He had a bad day.

He helped me when he didn’t have to.

I can do this one small thing for him.

I just…well, I hope he?—

“What are you doing?”

I spin so fast that the cookies nearly slide off the plate, seeing King standing in the doorway, face unreadable, big body still and eyes locked on me.

“I—” I swallow hard. “Baking cookies?”

Only it’s more question than statement.

And I watch his face soften. “You’re baking cookies?”

“You had a bad day,” I murmur. “And I made Everything dough earlier, so I thought…” I shrug, continue inanely, “Well, Everything cookies make everything better.”

His head tilts to the side, eyes still on mine, and I freeze, heart in my throat.

Why does this suddenly feel like a big deal?

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