Page 11 of Cookies & Kisses

Kiss her?

Oh, jeez. I’m turning into a mess.

She sighs and crosses her arms. “Fine, okay? Fine. I know I’m not supposed to be back here, but I’mdyingto bake something! My parents’ kitchen is tiny, and you have this incredible space, but then I saw you on the monitor and I dropped my bowl and—“ She’s cut off by the beeping timer. “Oh! The cookies are ready.” She rushes over to the oven and uses an oven mitt to pull out a tray of cookies.

“Are those vanilla cookies?” I ask, stepping closer to her. I don’t know what’s gotten into me, if it’s the insinuation that I need help or my mom commenting that Madeleine is “pretty,” but I feel the need to be next to her. To feel her presence close by.

“Yes.” She sets the tray down on the counter.

“Myvanilla cookies?”

“No. They’re better than yours.”

I can’t help a smirk. I love this feisty side of her. “We’ll see.” I move closer, one step after another, and she sucks in a breath. If she can be feisty, I can be bold. She’s covered in flour, but her blue eyes are bright and challenging. I stop with less than a foot between us, letting my eyes move from Madeleine to the tray of cookies. I study them, trying to figure out what she did to make them, as she claims, better than mine.

“Vanilla bean?” I ask, noticing the specks.

“That’s one thing.” Her voice sounds slightly shaky, and I can’t deny that being this close to her is affecting me, too.

“What else?”

“You’ll have to try one and see.” She grabs a spatula and starts moving the cookies from the tray to the wire rack.

I watch her smooth movements, clearly second-nature, and I have the urge to take a seat and watch her work.

“You don’t have to stare. I know I look like a flour-covered mess.”

I chuckle. “It’s not that. I just like watching you work.”

She whips her head over to me, blue eyes wide. Her lips twist into a playful grin. “Maybe you should let me in the kitchen more often.” She looks back to the tray before I can react, which is probably for the best. Because this woman is pushing my resolve out the window.

She finishes transferring the last cookie, then turns and leans her back against the counter. “How was dinner with your parents?”

“It was…frustrating.” Although the reason for my frustration is staring me in the face, and now I’m wondering why I was so opposed to the concept of Madeleine in my kitchen. I’ve been around plenty of beautiful women bakers, but Madeleine is mesmerizing.

Maybe Iwasright to keep her out of the kitchen. I’d never get anything done.

“I’m sorry it was frustrating. Your mom seemed really nice, if not a little…involved.”

“Well, she has every right to be. It’s technically her bakery.”

She nods, so I guess my mom filled her in on our general situation. Did she tell her about Natalie, too?

“It must be nice to have the support, though,” she says. She turns, sets a new timer for the cookies to cool, and picks up the empty tray, carrying it over to the sink.

Something about that topic sent her away.

Don’t ask her. Don’t get close.

“Is that not how things are with your parents?” Smooth, Mason. That’s theoppositeof not asking.

She turns on the water and starts washing, keeping her back to me. “It’s not that they’re unsupportive. They’re kind and encouraging. But…” She hesitates, squeezing soap onto the sponge. “They’re older. And their health isn’t great. Neither are their finances. So I’m kind of on my own. Whatever I want to accomplish, it’s all on me.”

I nod, even though her back is to me and she can’t see. But it explains a lot: her feistiness, her determination to prove herself and her worth, and her independence, traveling to New York and Canyon Cove, before landing here.

“They must be proud of you, though,” I say over the noise of the running water.

“They’d be prouder if I wasn’t just a receptionist.”

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