Page 72 of Cool for the Summer

He cringes and the blush from before comes back. “I think they mentioned something about trying a few different looks,” he says evasively.

“Wow. The man who would not wear a Speedo in his friend’s backyard pool might have to appear in a national ad campaign in one.” I’m delighted by the poetic justice, but not sure if I’m more proud or jealous of the extent to which the outside world will have access to ogle my boyfriend’s hot body.

The group laughs good-naturedly at Donovan’s chagrin, then Jack comes over and stands next to his husband.

“What’s so funny?” he asks.

Donovan sighs. “Oh, your cousin just thinks it’s hilarious that I might have to wear a Speedo in a national ad campaign.”

“Speedos? Love those things. Everyone wore them in Europe,” Jack says jovially. “Loosen up, man.”

“Yeah, loosen up,” I echo, sneaking a hand around to pat Donovan on the ass.

He scrunches up his face at me, then kisses me in front of our friends, as if he thinks that might make me be quiet. It’s a short kiss, but it still makes me feel things, and wonder how fast we can politely escape the party.

“Wait—am I missing something?” Melissa asks. “I thought you two were just sharing house-sitting duties.”

Donovan grins at me, a wide, happy smile that makes my heart turn over in my chest. “We were at first. Just roommates.”

“Then I seduced him with cookies and breakfast tacos and beating him at poker,” I joke.

“Yeah.” He grabs my hand, raises it to his mouth, and kisses the knuckles. “You did.”

Instead of melting into a puddle on the floor, I pull myself together enough to say, “So it looks like we’re both sticking around Rosedale, at least for now.” I don’t want to spill the beans about the blue house in case the deal doesn’t go through, but even if we end up living in a one-bedroom apartment forever, something tells me it won’t be the end of the world, as long as we’re there together. “Roommates again.”

“The best roommate I ever had,” he says softly.

“The best you ever had, period,” I add with a saucy wink.

“The very best,” he agrees.

EPILOGUE

DONOVAN

Labor Day, one year later

Mollyand I jog down the street, sweat soaking through my shirt and making my hair cling to my neck. It’s gotten long again, but Beck likes it that way, so I’m not in a hurry to get a trim.

The multi-colored dog is a relatively new addition to my exercise routine, but a welcome one. A few weeks ago Dulcie called—she had a friend who was moving out of the country and couldn’t bring her three-year-old mutt. Beck and I took one look at her and knew we’d found the pup we’d been waiting for. She already had her name, but Beck insists that Molly is short for Molasses—the cookies that brought us together.

She and I were up early to beat the heat. The holiday promises to be a classic New England late summer day—sunny, hot, and humid.

I push open the swinging gate that separates the sidewalk from the path to our front door. Beach roses bloom on either side of me in a profusion of ruby red. Molly pauses to anoint a cone flower that Kingston gave us when we officially moved into the blue house at the end of Turner Street.

That was almost ten months ago, mere weeks after we agreed to buy the house as-is for a low price. Sure, we’ve had to redo the roof, repaint the outside a fresh coat of the same colonial blue, pull about a million weeds in the front and back yards—and we’re still not done with the inside. But as much work as it’s been, it’s the first place I’ve been truly able to call home since I went away to college.

I bang through the front door. “Babe, I’m home,” I yell.

“I’m in the kitchen,” he calls back.

I could have guessed that. Beck’s at the Cookie Counter five days a week, but when he’s home, he’s usually in the kitchen. We renovated it first—which means our bedroom still has seventies-era carpet and a crack in the plaster ceiling—and there are new appliances, cement countertops, recessed lighting, and a heated tile floor. Beck wanted the color scheme to be different from the Cookie Counter’s blue and orange, so our kitchen is a clean white with jade green accents.

I kick off my running shoes and head down the hallway. Molly makes a beeline for her water bowl, and I peel off my shirt, tossing it in the general direction of the laundry room. The blue house is bigger than it looks from the outside, with four bedrooms and three bathrooms. Again, things still need work, but the house has good bones, as they say, and it’s been surprisingly satisfying to learn how to fix running toilets and patch walls. I even made friends with our contractor, Manny. We play pickleball sometimes on the weekends.

“What are you doing?” I ask my boyfriend when I reach the kitchen.

He looks up with his finger in his mouth, his eyes round with guilt. He pulls his finger out with a pop. “Nothing.”

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