Page 58 of Cool for the Summer

“Hang on.” I dash to my room, search in the detritus of business notes and color swatches and cash flow projections on my desk. I find the notebook I bought for Donovan weeks ago and run back to the kitchen.

“What’s this?” he asks, taking it from my hand when I hold it out.

“I got it in town the other day.” I don’t specify how long ago I was thinking about him, wanting to do something nice for him.

“This is amazing. Thanks, Beck.” He looks up and grabs my wrist lightly, tugs me in, and plants a kiss on my mouth. I kiss back, lightly, mindful of the cookies in the oven. When I pull away, he looks slightly stunned.

“You know, you’re really too good to me,” he says, cracking open the notebook. “I’ve got by far the better end of this deal.”

“Huh?”

“You cook for me, bake for me, get me useful presents. I’m just a barnacle.”

“You give me orgasms,” I say before I can overthink it.

“Yeah, but you give me those, too. Sex is a wash.”

I know Donovan’s not giving himself enough credit. “Remember the first day we met? In Hot Brew?”

“The day you were so hungover, but I wanted to sleep with you, anyway?”

“You make it sound so romantic,” I tease, then tense. We’re not supposed to be romantic. “Anyway, you saw the state I was in. You made me drink water. You bought me a greasy breakfast sandwich.”

“Best cure for a hangover there is,” he says.

“My point is, you’ve been taking care of me since the minute we met. You do more than your share with Cleo. You’ve been amazing moral support for the shop. You’re not a barnacle. You’re… amazing.” The last word is quiet. Maybe he won’t notice what I’m really saying.

“Thanks.” He’s quiet, too, as if uncomfortable with the praise.

The oven timer goes off, saving me from my own sentimentality. “Okay, in a few minutes, we’ll find out how close I got this time.” I pull the fragrant tray of cookies out of the oven, put in the next tray I’ve already prepared.

Donovan scratches away in the new notebook and I take a few pictures of the cookies on the tray to post to the new social feed I set up for the shop. Then I snap a candid photo of him, bent over his work, lock of hair hanging over his forehead, shoulders straining the seams of his olive green tee.

We don’t have any pictures of the two of us, I suddenly realize. My phone has become overrun with photos of Cleo, of cookies, of the in-progress shop, some selfies of me by the pool, a few of Donovan, too, because I’m human and am not going to pass up the opportunity to snap a picture of the man without a shirt on—with his okay, of course. But I’m not sure there’s a single one of the two of us. The thought makes me oddly sad. I have endless pics of me with my former boyfriends.

But then, Donovan’s not my boyfriend.

While I’m scrolling through my photos, he comes to my side and wraps his arms around my middle. Just like a boyfriend would. “Are they cool enough yet?” he practically whines.

“Almost. Want some milk?”

“Just the cookie.”

I put down my phone and lean over the counter to test the temperature of one of the big dark brown discs. He leans with me, the solid lines of his body framing mine, surrounding me with his strength and warmth. I hand him a no-longer piping hot cookie, then take a chance. “Can we take a picture?”

“Sure,” he says. “Better do it quick, before I take a bite. These smell incredible.”

I raise the phone with the camera reversed. It’s startling to see myself in the frame beside him, my own face somehow less familiar to me than his after weeks of the privilege of looking at him. He smiles like the pro he is, still pressed against my back. Our intimate position is unmistakable, but that’s okay. This photo will just be for me. I smile and click the button.

Over my shoulder, Donovan breaks and takes a comically enormous bite of cookie, and I keep snapping as he makes a silly face, his cheeks bulging out. My own cheeks are stretched wide as I finally set down the phone and turn to face him.

“You goof,” I say, laughing. “Don’t choke.”

“Mrghph,” he says with his mouth full.

“I’m getting you that milk.” I slip out of his reach, grab the jug from the fridge.

He gratefully takes the glass I hand him, sips, and clears his throat.

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