Page 29 of Naughty Nicky

“All right, well I’ll call you tomorrow with a road and weather update. Love you.”

“Love you too, Dad.” I hang up the phone and toss it back onto the coffee table. I do want to spend more time with Nick but for all the wrong reasons.

I can also think of plenty of nice things I can do for him. Most of them involve me naked, and I am one hundred percent sure that is not what my dad meant.

I stand up and stretch and head to the window to look at the progress Nick’s made on the driveway. There seems to be about three feet of snow already, and it’s supposed to snow for almost another twenty-four hours. I’m sure we’ll get at least six feet if not more.

I watch as he rides the ATV he has with a plow attached to it. He makes his way down the long driveway clearing up sections of snow at a time.

Those damn butterflies return to my stomach, and I hate the feeling not because I don’t like having this high school crush on the guy but because I know nothing will ever come of it. Nick doesn’t see me the way I see him, and he surely does not have any desire to sleep with me.

I let out a sigh mixed with a groan and start to pace around the house.

What the hell am I supposed to even be doing?

I could make some muffins for Nick, but I don’t even know if he likes muffins. Although, who doesn’t like muffins? But I doubt he has a muffin tin, and I am sure I’ll fuck it up somehow.

Maybe I can make cookies. Surely, I can’t mess those up, right?

I decide I may as well try. I dig around in the kitchen looking for anything that I could use to make cookies.

Bingo! A bag of chocolate chips. This can’t be that hard, right? I do work in a bakery. And I see the pastry chef making cookies all the time. I can easily do this. I think.

I read the back of the bag of chocolate chips because who knew there was a cookie recipe on the back and start to gather the ingredients. I’m happy that Nick seems to have all the ingredients except for baking powder, but it only needs half a teaspoon so I don’t think it will matter if I leave that out, seems pointless.

I start to mix the wet ingredients together and feel like I am on the Great British Baking Show. I got this, I am a champion.

I put all the dry ingredients together and then dump them into the bowl with the wet ingredients. I turn on the hand mixer, and an explosion of flour happens. It’s all over my face and in my eyes. I can’t even see. I spit out flour and try to wipe some of the mess from my face when I notice that it didn’t just get all over me but all over the damn kitchen. It’s on the counters and the cabinets and the floor.

Clearly there is something wrong with the mixer, how the hell else would this happen?

Maybe I just need to turn the speed down on it?

I do that but still flour gets everywhere. I have no idea what I am doing wrong but decide to just keep going because what other choice do I have.

I somehow manage to get the dough fully mixed, although I don’t think it’s right. It seems lumpy and just not the right texture at all compared to the dough I’ve seen in the bakery. I just shrug it off and add the chocolate chips into the mixture, using my hands to mix it all together.

The easiest part is putting them on the baking sheet. I am just about over this whole baking thing. A complete reminder of why I don’t do this.

I roll each cookie into a ball and place them on the cookie sheet. At least I know to keep them a few inches apart, I do remember something from what my mom taught me as a kid whenever we used to make Christmas cookies.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

I jump and nearly drop the tray of cookies. I slide them into the oven and then turn around to face Nick.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

He snorts and then looks around the kitchen. “Making a goddamn mess.”

I grimace as I take in the kitchen. “It’s notthatbad.”

Nick walks up to me and laughs as he brushes what I can only guess is flour off my cheeks. “You look like you’ve been outside in the snow for a few hours. You are covered in flour.”

“Well, I put the blame on that thing.” I point to the mixer.

“What did the mixer do to you?”

“This!” I shout.

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