Page 21 of Cool for the Summer

Beck turns toward the fridge, but I stand up. “You don’t have to—I can get it myself.”

He smiles and waves me away. “You’re at my cookie counter. I got it.”

I feel a little weird about letting him wait on me, but I sit back down. A minute later, Beck delivers a glass of milk and a cookie on a plain white plate.

“Looks almost too good to eat.”

“They look nice,” he agrees, taking his phone out to snap a few pictures. “But how do they taste?”

He watches anxiously as I take a bite of the still-warm cookie.

All the flavors hanging in the air combine into a sharp, sweet taste on my tongue. The cookie is the perfect amount of chewy, and I wordlessly grunt my approval, then wash the bite down with a refreshing sip of milk.

“Good?” Beck asks, sounding unsure.

“Great,” I say, taking a second bite. “You’re a good baker.”

“Thanks, but are they as good as your aunt’s?”

I consider the question. It’s not exactly easy to compare the deliciousness in my mouth to a childhood Christmas memory. “Yes?”

His mouth flattens. “Be honest.”

“Beck, it’s been fifteen years. These are amazing molasses cookies.”

“Were hers lighter? Darker? Sweeter?” he persists.

“Spicier, actually,” I say, finally putting my finger on the difference. “They had a bit of heat. And I think they were darker.”

Beck hums and types something on his phone. “Interesting.”

“But these are honestly delicious.” I munch happily on the rest of the cookie and grab another from the cooling rack.

“I’ll just have to try again,” he says, sounding unbothered by the prospect. He looks at me and points to my mouth. “You’ve got a crumb.”

I dart my tongue out and fish around for the crumb in question. Beck’s gaze seems to follow along. I make contact with the bit of cookie and swallow. “Did I get it?”

“Yeah.” Beck’s voice is low. There’s a long moment where no one says anything. I don’t know if it’s the sugar or the late hour or the sensual jazz riff coming over the speakers, but I very strongly want to know if Beck tastes as good as his cookies.

The timer beeps shrilly and Beck leaps toward the oven. The moment is over, but I wonder how long it will be before the same urge comes at me again.

Later, I’m drifting off to sleep, the air still tinged with the scent of spices, when I realize I hadn’t even thought twice about staying in tonight and not hitting the bar.The sex drought continues, I think as I fall asleep with a hint of a smile on my face.

NINE

BECK

Friday isthe first cloudy day since my arrival in Rosedale, so I throw on a thin light blue cardigan over my jeans and dark blue V-neck before grabbing my keys. Cleo’s happily snoozing in her bed in the kitchen, and Donovan’s probably upstairs. He spends most of his mornings upstairs in his room. Supposedly he’s working on his play, but every time I ask him about it he turns grumpy, so I haven’t mentioned it for a couple of days.

I can’t believe it’s already Friday. At this rate, the summer is going to fly by faster than a shooting star. Taking care of Cleo isn’t a chore, but feeding her, walking her, and sending lots of pictures to her daddies is more time-consuming than one might think. The rest of the week I’ve spent poolside, cooking, and trying a different molasses cookie recipe every night. So far I haven’t cracked the code of Donovan’s aunt’s recipe, but it’s just a matter of time.

We’ve eaten dinner together each night this week. It’s been nice to cook for more than myself, and Donovan enthusiastically eats everything I put in front of him. Not sure how he maintains that body of his, since the couple of times he’s joined me in the pool he floats around lazily more than doing actual laps, but I think he’s used the workout machines in the basement once or twice. I’m trying really hard to stay on my best behavior and not follow him around like a puppy—we already have one of those in the house, thank you very much.

We don’t spend every minute together, but our shared meals have been a bright spot. Donovan tells me stories about his theater experiences, some of them redacted to protect the identities of his more famous friends, and I’ve made him laugh with some of my more epic baking and higher education fails.

I think we might be getting to be real friends.

And if I still think Donovan is basically the handsomest man I’ve ever met, well, I can handle myself.

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