Page 9 of Puck & Make Up

“The batter looked wrong,” she says by way of explanation, and if I hear a hint of remorse in her tone, then she must really feel sorry for me. “How many?”

“Three.”

She nods but doesn’t say anything else as she scoops up the carton and pulls out three eggs, making quick work of cracking them into the bowl.

I steal the bowl from her once the eggs are in and start mixing the cookie dough, loving the little sound she makes in the back of her throat.

She’s frustrated with me, which is way better than the pity from the last couple of weeks, and frankly, so much better than her normal reaction to me.

That being her ignoring me.

I like her frustrated.

I love it when she can’t ignore me.

Yeah, I’m an asshole.

“I can do it,” she snaps, whirling toward me, reaching for the bowl.

I keep it out of her reach. “I know you can, but it’smyjob.”

“Says who?”

“Seriously?”

“I could have just bought cookies from the grocery store.”

“And they wouldn’t be as good as mine,” I say, still stirring.

She scowls.

“And because I know you love both chocolateandmy cookies, why don’t you just let me work so we all get what we want as quickly as possible?”

She huffs out a sigh, but as is often the case with Dessie, she doesn’t just give in, doesn’t accept defeat. She just…finds a way to bypass it. Case in point? She doesn’t engage in this argument with me further, just turns away, picks up a cookie sheet from the opposite counter and brings it over, dropping it with a loud clatter.

Then immediately steals the bowl once I finish mixing and starts to spoon out the dough.

“You know,” I drawl, leaning past her and fixing a lopsided ball, “one could sayyou’redoing it wrong.”

“Just add the salt,” she grinds out, shooting a glare my direction. “I’m PMSing and need chocolate.”

“Sothat’swhy I get the pleasure of cranky Dessie,” I tease.

She just scowls at me again before she carries the bowl to the other cookie sheet and keeps scooping. “I don’t know why you couldn’t make these before you came over like a normal person,” she mutters. “Then I wouldn’t be stuck talking to you when I could be self-medicating with chocolate.”

My mouth kicks up. “I didn’t know you liked something about me enough to stoop low enough to endure my presence.”

“I like the cookies you happen to make,” she says tartly. “That doesn’t mean I likeyou.”

“Yeah, about that,” I say, not taking her words personally—we’re long past that—as I finish with the salt, lean close, and swipe my finger into the bowl, scooping up a dollop. E. coli or not, I won’t turn down raw cookie dough. “You neverdidexplain what your problem with me is.”

“Annie—”

“Nope,” I remind her. “You hated me long before that.”

Her expression gentles. “I am sorry,” she says. “That Annie…” She trails off and I almost feel bad for her.

“I have a great mom.”

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