Page 83 of Falling Overboard

“Are you sure you don’t need help?” he asked right before he snitched another piece of dough.

“I’m good. Chocolate chip cookies are easy. If it had been macarons, you would have found me in a ball on the floor, crying.”

“Why are you making cookies?”

“The guest requested it.” The bell dinged and I took out the batch in the oven and set it on the stove to cool. I put in the next tray and reset the timer.

Hunter frowned slightly. “Did he say why?”

“No,” I said, flicking a bit of dough at him.

He looked at me in mock outrage. “Don’t start something you’re not willing to finish.”

I laughed and then immediately modulated my tone, remembering that nearly all our fellow crewmembers were currently sleeping in their cabins nearby. “Do you cook?” I asked.

“I have the repertoire of a diner chef, but not the skill.”

“Honestly, I’m not that great at cooking regular food, either. But I love baking. The precision of it, the science involved. It has to be donecorrectly, all the ingredients interacting perfectly, and the end result will always be the same.”

“So you like it because there are strict rules.”

That made me pause. “I guess so. I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“If it’s basically science, does it turn out perfectly every time?”

“No! So many things can go wrong. Even if you do everything exactly right, it might not turn out.”

He studied me and then said, “I would think that would upset you.”

Fair point. “Even less-than-perfect chocolate chip cookies taste pretty good. And if I need to start over again and hope things turn out better the second time, I can.” I put a couple of cookies on a plate, sprinkled on some sea salt, poured a glass of milk and then a glass of wine.

“Wine this late?” he asked.

“It’s raining outside. The yachtie motto is ‘when it rains, we pour.’ I’m hoping it will make him sleepy.”

So that I could go back to bed with Hunter. The idea sent warm tingles racing along my nerve endings.

I set the tray for Rodney off to the side so that I could put the final batch of cookies in the oven.

“You should hand those extras over,” Hunter said. “So I can test them and make sure they’re not terrible.”

I grabbed a handful of flour and chucked it at him. It hit him square in the chest.

His mouth opened to an O and then he looked up at me in surprise.

“You’re not allowed to question my baking abilities. I’m willing to finish this,” I said, getting another handful.

Mischief filled his eyes and he set his mug down. “Oh, you think so?”

“Not the eggs!” I screeched, seeing what he was reaching for. “Do you know how hard that is to clean? They harden like cement!”

Since I had the container of flour, he grabbed the sugar and flung a bunch of it at me. I immediately tossed white, powdery flour back at him and we started pelting each other, giggling and laughing while trying not to wake everyone up.

He looked like a ghost, his hair completely coated in flour. He moved closer and closer to me, backing me into a corner. Then he dropped the sugar and lunged, grabbing my arms and putting them behind me, pinning me against the counter. He pressed his body against mine.

“Got you!” he said.

The laughter died in both of our throats at the same time as we realized the situation we were in. Our chests were heaving against one another, and while my heart had already been pumping hard during our food fight, now it was jackhammering against my ribs. His gaze dropped down to my lips and I ached for him in a way I didn’t know was possible.

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