Page 38 of Knot Baked Out For This
She actually laughs—just a small huff of air, but it counts. "How is that possible?"
"He decided they needed to be 'caramelized.' With a blowtorch."
"No."
"While they were still in the plastic container."
"Oh my god."
"Fischer still won't let him near the kitchen."
We're standing closer now, drawn together by shared amusement and muscle memory. Her scent is calmer, that smoke undertone banking to warm embers. This is dangerous territory—the easy conversation, the familiar rhythm. This is how we were before everything went to shit. Before Korringot his claws in her properly. Before I failed to see what was happening. Before?—
"I should check on the rest of my stock," she says suddenly, stepping back. "Make sure nothing else got damaged."
"Right. Yeah."
She turns to serve a customer who's been hovering politely, and I should go back to my booth. Should stop watching her like some creeper. Should definitely not be thinking about how she felt in my arms or how her laugh makes my chest tight or how badly I want to?—
My hand moves without permission, snagging one of her pumpkin cookies while she's distracted. It's still warm, perfect orange icing with little cinnamon sugar crystals that catch the light. I pocket it quick, smooth, the product of years of sneaking midnight snacks at the firehouse.
Pathetic. You're absolutely pathetic.
But I want something of hers. Something she made with those capable hands, something that has her fingerprints in the dough. Something that proves she's real and here and not just another dream where I save her in time.
I turn to head back to my booth?—
She's watching me.
Just for a second, from the corner of her eye, but she saw. I know she saw because her lips twitch, fighting a smile that wants to exist despite everything between us.
"That'll be three dollars," she tells her customer, but her eyes flick to me again. "Cookies aren't free, even for heroes who save people from killer puppies."
"Bill me," I say, pulling the cookie out to take a bite.
Fuck.It's perfect. Spiced and sweet with that hint of orange that shouldn't work but does. Like everything she makes. Like everything she is.
"I will," she promises. "With interest."
"Steep price for a cookie."
"Steep price for stealing."
"Prove it was stealing. Maybe it jumped into my pocket. Baked goods are unpredictable around here."
"Is that your defense? Cookie suicide?"
"It's a theory."
Derek appears at my elbow, because of course he does. "Chief wants to know if you're planning to actually work our booth or just flirt with the baker all day."
"I'm not?—"
"He's not?—"
We both stop. Derek grins like Christmas came early.
"Right. Not flirting. Just aggressively discussing pastry theft. Very professional." He tips his hat to Hazel. "Ma'am. Your cinnamon rolls are legendary, by the way. Cambridge here talks about them constantly."
