Page 67 of Three Sweet Nothings (The Blindfold Club)

Chapter

TWENTY-FOUR

KYLE

I knocked on Ruby’s door, and as I waited for her to answer, I shifted the messenger bag on my shoulder. The door swung open, and the funny feeling in my chest was back as I set my gaze on her.

Her hair was pulled up into a high ponytail. She looked casual in jeans and a deep orange cable-knit sweater, and beautiful as hell. A slight smile bowed on her lips as she let me inside her apartment, where it was excessively warm.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hi. What’s with the bag?”

I unslung it from my shoulder and handed it to her to hold while I took off my coat. “Don’t worry about it, it’s for later.”

Her eyes narrowed playfully like I was a shady character, but she didn’t peek inside. Her gaze swept over my dark jeans and the oatmeal colored sweater I wore over a blue button-down, the shirttails hanging out beneath.

“I wasn’t kidding when I said I had plans,” she announced. I hung my coat in her closet and set the bag on the floor, propped up against the wall. “After I finished the macarons, I was supposed to go out for drinks with my friends.”

“That was a real reason. You didn’t have to blow them off for me.” But inside, I was thrilled. Did she want to see me as badly as I wanted to see her?

Ruby snorted. “I didn’t blow them off. When I told my friend you were coming over, he bailed.”

I hesitated. “He?”

“Yes.” Her expression was plain. “He.”

A timer beeped in the kitchen and she pivoted on her heel, leaving me to follow. I ignored the wall of pictures to my left, not wanting to see all the people good enough to earn a place there, and the reminder I wasn’t one of them.

This was no small cookie-making project.

Every available surface was occupied with something baking related. The eat-in kitchen table had two trays on it with yellow circles. There were bowls, a mixer, various other things I didn’t know but assumed were tools, and sacks of flour and sugar.

She touched her finger to one of the yellow circles on the tray and seemed satisfied with the results. I watched her pick up the cookie sheet, march it over to the oven, and slide it inside. Only she wedged a wooden spoon in the door when she closed it.

“You know, the heat is supposed to stay in the oven.”

“Oh my God, is that how it works?”

I ignored her attempt to play dumb. “Can I ask why you’re making enough cookies to feed a small army?”

“My sister’s a high school vice principal. Monday they have a teachers’ in-service day, and she wanted to reward her staff.”

“And she demanded you make her cookies?”

Ruby shrugged as she set the timer. “I like making macarons. It’s kind of my thing.”

It hadn’t been her thing in law school; this was something she’d gotten into after. I disliked not being in the know about her new hobby. I stood in the center of the kitchen, in her way, as she unwrapped a stick of butter, dropped it into the bowl beneath the mixer, and set the machine running.

She washed bowls in the sink, paying no attention to me as I surveyed the room. Her fridge had two tickets stuck to it under a magnet, and I stepped closer to read the small print. Huh.

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for an orchestra lover,” I said loudly over the hum of the mixer and the running faucet.

“My friend Grant plays cello. It’s their season finale.” She shut off the water and stacked the bowl in the drying rack. “They’re just a community orchestra, but they’re good.”

There was an abrupt knock on her front door, drawing both of our attention.

“Oh, crap, I forgot about that.” She dug some cash out of her pocket and went to the door, revealing a scrawny guy holding a flat, white box.

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