Page 13 of Cool for the Summer

“Besides the bacon, there’s no food on this list.”

“What are you talking about?” Beck pours a generous amount of syrup on his French toast.

“Baking powder, lemon extract, ground cloves, almond flour—what’s AP flour?”

“All purpose,” Beck says. “I take it you aren’t a baker. Those are all ingredients.”

“Ingredients aren’t food,” I say, sticking to my guns.

“You mix them together, heat them up, and then you get food,” Beck explains, a smile in his voice. “Trust me. What kind of cookies do you like?”

“Cookies?”

“Cookies are my favorite thing to bake.”

“Oh. Well.” I try to remember the last time I ate a cookie. “I don’t know. I guess I don’t eat a lot of cookies. Oreos are pretty good.”

“Oreos are very good,” Beck agrees. “But I can’t make an Oreo. Didn’t your mom bake?”

“My mom can’t boil water,” I say, “but I love her, anyway.” I’m struck by a sudden memory—opening a box at Christmastime from my Aunt Sharleen. “My aunt used to send us fudge and some kind of spicy cookie at the holidays. Those were pretty good. She died a couple of years ago. I haven’t thought about those in a long time.”

“Like a gingerbread cookie?” Beck asks, leaning closer, his face lighting up. “Or more of a molasses?”

“What’s the difference?”

“Was it cut out in a shape or was it round, like your typical chocolate chip cookie?”

I close my eyes and think back. My parents were always busy with their full-time jobs. Christmas was one of the few times they were off work. The holiday was usually a bit of a rushed affair, but cozy. We’d all sprawl on the living room rug, watching movies as we snacked on those delicious cookies. I open my eyes and Beck’s closer than I thought, his clear light blue eyes trained intently on my face. He has a small mole at the edge of one eyebrow that lends him a nice asymmetry. I swallow. “Round. They definitely had cinnamon in them, but other flavors, too. Don’t ask me what they were.”

“Okay.” His gaze seems to drop to my mouth for a split second before he turns his attention back to his plate. “That gives me something to go on.” He grabs a pen and adds a few more items to the list.

I lean over to see he added cardamom, nutmeg, allspice. And Oreos.

I ignore the warm feeling flooding my chest and finish my coffee.

“I had planned to go to the store, too,” I say. “Why don’t we go together?”

“Okay,” Beck says. “What else is on the agenda, Mr. Playwright? You going to write today?”

I groan. “And we were getting along so well.”

Beck waves a hand. “Forget I asked. None of my business. Just tell me if you want dinner here tonight. I might as well cook for two.”

“You sure you don’t mind?”

“Nope. Especially not if you take dish duty.”

“Seems like a fair enough trade.” I think about the rest of the summer stretching ahead. “And what about the morning shift with Cleo? I’m not much of a morning person, but you want me to do tomorrow since you got up with her today?”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Beck says, throwing a smile at the pup, who looks up as if she knows we’re talking about her. “She’s actually pretty easy.”

“You’re making me feel like a freeloader,” I say. “I’ve got to pull my weight, or Pete will find some way to make me regret it.”

“How about I do mornings and you do evenings? And if one of us has something come up, we can trade.”

“Deal.”

We finish our breakfasts quickly and I clear the dishes into the dishwasher while Beck ducks into his room off the kitchen and emerges a couple of minutes later dressed in a short-sleeved white button-down embroidered with tiny pink flamingos, holding his Ray-Bans. We decide to leave Cleo behind while we go shopping, since Pete said she doesn’t like car rides.

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