Page 39 of #Starstruck

“Are you making me cookies?”

“Yes, you obsessed weirdo.”

“Mikitchen issukitchen. Help yourself.”

I opened the door to his pantry. It was easily the size of a small apartment. I could have happily lived in there. And it was organized with bins and containers, the kind you see in magazines. I scanned his shelves, because a cake mix would be easier. I found white, chocolate, and yellow mixes, but no spice cake. I grabbed the containers marked flour and sugar, and boxes of baking powder and soda.

“Where are your spices?”

He pointed to a cabinet next to his stove. I set the oven to 350 degrees. I admit it took me a few minutes to figure it out because it had more buttons and dials than NASA’s Mission Control Center. I quickly found cinnamon, and it surprised me when I found cloves as well.

“I can’t believe you have cloves.”

“Of course I have ... whatever you just said. Do you think I’m a savage?”

Shaking my head, I got butter and eggs out of his Sub-Zero fridge, the inside of which resembled a small farmers’ market. He had a ton of fresh vegetables and fruits. Like they were in there reproducing.

I located a medium-size saucepan and measuring cups and put the butter, water, sugar, and spices inside. I turned on the heat (more time spent figuring that out), intending to bring it to a boil.

“What are you making?”

“Spice-cake batter. You said you wanted my spice cookies, so that’s what I’m making. Because you seem pretty determined to have everything your way.”

“Another compliment.”

I stopped my hunt for a spatula. “Then I must have said it wrong, because stubbornness isn’t really a good thing.”

“Says the girl who’s looking a little pinkish. Is that a faint sunburn I detect?”

“That wasn’t because I’m stubborn.” I found the spatula and brought it over to the island.

“No, that was because you ran away from me.”

I couldn’t meet his eyes. “I didn’t run away.”

Yes, I had. I’d totally run away.

“I noticed you can be a little ... skittish. I hope I don’t make you feel that way.”

I almost laughed. My heart was pumping so hard right then that if I’d been standing in Texas, it probably could have pulled oil out of the ground. “Have you seen you?”

“Every day in the mirror.”

He said it like it was a joke, as if his appearance should have no bearing on this conversation. Like he couldn’t make a nun give up her vows just by winking at her.

I’d basically just told him he was ridiculously hot. And here we were being domestic again, me baking for him in his ginormous kitchen. Clearly a subject change was in order.

“You know, I’m supposed to be your assistant. Shouldn’t I be assisting you with those? Putting them in envelopes or whatever? I’m here. I could be killing two birds with one stone.”

“Nobody needs to murder any birds. I’ve got this covered.” There was an evasive tone in his voice.

“There’s something you’re not telling me.” The ingredients on the stove started to boil, and I removed the pan from the heat.

He put the Sharpie down. “Okay, I’m going to be honest with you. One-F has been doing most of the assistant work. Not running errands but just about everything else.”

“Wait. You’re paying both of us for the same job? That doesn’t seem right.”

“I wanted to help you. It’s weird, especially because we don’t know each other that well yet, and I know this sounds bizarre, but it’s like ... I want to protect you. I’ve never felt that way about a girl before.”

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