Page 31 of From Nowhere

Before reaching the break room, I peek into the hangar to see if I can spot my favorite single dad. When I come up empty, I turn. “Oof!”

Plunk!

Taylor cringes at the eight cookies scattered at our feet. His cringe intensifies when he sees the one stuck to my pink blouse. Finally, he eyes the two still protected by the plastic on one side and the plate on the other. “Shit, Maren. I’m so sorry. I was looking at my phone and—”

“No biggie. I turned too quickly and—”

Ozzy steps around the corner, zipping his coveralls. He smiles at me, but it fades when he sees the mess on my blouse and all over the floor.

Taylor squats and picks up the cookies. “Were these for us? I’m such an oaf, Maren. God. I’m sorry.”

“They were for Ozzy’s daughter. I think I got her in trouble the other day.” I change my story on the fly. Hopefully, no one will ask Hillary to corroborate it.

Ozzy’s gaze slides from Taylor’s quick cleanup to my shirt. “You made Lola cookies?”

“I did.”

“What can I do to make this right?” Taylor stares at the cookies. “I’ll put them in the break room. I think there’s a three-second rule, right?”

Ozzy smirks at me.

I tear my gaze from him and smile at Taylor. “Go for it. And don’t worry about it. I have more at home.”

Well, Jamie does, unless Fitz already inhaled them.

“Uh ...” Taylor nods to my shirt.

I peel the gooey cookie from it. “Really, it will wash off,” I assure him.

Taylor shakes his head. “Sorry, Maren,” he mumbles, heading toward the break room.

“As a rule, I refuse to have anything go right around you,” I say, giving Ozzy a toothy grin.

“Maybe I’m just bad luck.” He easily encircles my wrist with his big calloused hand.

With a silent gasp, I part my lips. I’ve been daydreaming about his touch—conscious, well-thought-out daydreams.

He lifts my hand and takes a bite of the cookie. “Damn, Maren. That’s a good cookie. A badass pilotanda baker.”

I’ll correct him later, when I’m not wearing chocolate or burning up from his touch. I open my hand to let him take the rest of thecookie. He releases my wrist and snags it, popping the other half into his mouth.

Lucky cookie.

“I should take off my shirt,” I murmur.

He licks the chocolate from his lips, eyes flared.

“What I mean”—I clear my throat—“is I should get home and stain treat this shirt. That sounded like I wanted to flash you.”

“Do you?” He lifts a serious eyebrow.

“Flashing feels like a third-date thing. We’ve only had one date,” I say with a nervous laugh.

And you need to ask me for a second date!

“The cookies were a kind gesture. Lola would have loved them, but don’t worry about her. I took her for pizza and let her get dessert. And Sunday, she had a softball game in the afternoon, which ended with ice cream.”

“Such a good dad.”

---