Page 36 of Matthias's Protective Embrace
“Oh, okay. I’ll see if your dad canhelp me finish these up.”
I roll my eyes. My dad has helped with the cookies exactly once, after which he was banned from the kitchen anytime there was decorating.
“If you need help, Christina, we could stick around a few minutes. I’m not great in the kitchen, but you can put me to work on whatever needs to be done.”
I know he’s trying to impress my parents, which is great and all, but seriously? Can’t he give them a nice bottle of wine and be done with it? I try not to pout, but my bottom lip has other plans.
“That’s so kind of you to offer.”Please tell him it’s not necessary. Please tell him it’s not necessary.“Why don’t you take off your jacket and wash your hands? Then you can help Frank with the decorating.”
And there goes my fun date night. The first date I’ve had in two years, and we’re going to spend it in my kitchen. With my parents. In a frilly apron.
MATTHIAS
Frank is adorable in his apron, though I know better than to say that to him. There’s something about the way the feminine lines of frills look against his undershirt that makes me smile. My guess is this isn’t what he planned for our date. I like this better.
This isn’t how I expected the evening to go either. I got out of my car at the same time as Frank’s father arrived home from work. He was kind enough to let me into the house. He gave me a few strange looks, but I’m not sure whether they were because of my clothes, my age, or the fact that I’m here for his baby boy. Possibly all three.
Now, I’m going to decorate cookies, something I’ve never done before.At my house, homemade cookies were either peanut butter or chocolate chip, neither of which takes rainbow sprinkles.
“Which ones can I help with?” I ask Frank. His jaw drops as he stares at me.
“We didn’t have to stay,” he whispers, probably a bit too loudly.
“It’s nice to help. We can go when it’s done.” It’s the wrong thing to say. His face drops instantly. I can’t work it out right now, not with his parents hovering around. I mentally add it to the list of things to discuss at dinner.
Instead, I grab one of the jars of sprinkles from the counter. “Show me how to do this.”
Frank rolls his eyes—something else we’ll talk about later—and points to a corner of the baking sheet. “Do those two. Don’t be stingy either. I have a reputation to maintain.” I do my best, but they turn out only okay. Per Frank’s instructions, they’re covered in burnt orange sugar. Pouring sprinkles onto dough doesn’t sound hard, but clearly, there’s a technique I’m missing. Frank’s are much better. Professional even, with the sugar spread evenly. I’m hoping the future holds lots of opportunities for him to teach me his skills.
“You’ve got a real knack for this. Those look incredible,” I say when his mom excuses herself for a few minutes.
“I’ve done it a lot.” He puts a few sprinkles on the last one he’s finishing. In the time it took me to do two, Frank’s somehow completed ten. “Okay, those are the last ones. I think that gets us off the hook.”
“Oh, are you boys leaving?” I can’t remember the last time someone referred to me as a boy. Even if I’m one of the younger folks at my father’s firm, I’m still very much in my mid-thirties. A fact made clear by the strands of grey hair along my temples.
“Yes.” Frank jumps in before I can say anything.
“I’ll see if I can get your father to help with the last tray.” Mrs. Rosso looks longingly at another pan full of undecorated dough. It takes all my self-control to hold back a chuckle. This woman is a master manipulator.
Frank gives me a look I can’t read. My manners tell me we should stay and help. It’ll only take a few more minutes and then we can be out of here, consciences clean. Plus, his mom will be much happier. On the other hand, I can tell Frank’s anxious for us to get going. If I let her, I suspect Mrs. Rosso would find new tasks for the two of us to complete all night long. That’s probably at least half the reason Frank doesn’t like spending time here between his packed schedule.
“Well, I think we have time to do that last tray, but then we really do have to go so we can make our reservation.” I stress the wordbut, making sure she hears it.
“Thank you, Matthias. I don’t know what I’d do without Frank’s help. He’s famous, you know. Everyone at church is so happy he’s back home and helping with the cookies again. We make more money with the ones he decorates.” I suspect at least half of that’s true. Frank turns a shade of bright red that starts at his face and spreads down his trunk and arms. I can’t help but wonder how far down his body it stretches. Maybe later tonight I’ll get a chance to find out.
A new tray of cookies appears in front of us. Frank’s shoulders sink as he stares at all the undecorated shapes.
“I’ll leave you boys to it.” She hangs her apron up on the back of a cabinet and uses it to wipe her hands. “I’ll be in the other room if you need any help.”
“This is going to take forever,” Frank whines.
“Not if we work together.” He gives me a sly look. My cookie decorating skills might be on par with an elementary schooler, but at least I know how to keep the sugar on the cookies and not in the pan. “Give me instructions. It’ll speed things up.”
I can see he wants to make a dirty joke about it but refrains. “Can you do a dusting of red sugar on each of the maple leaves?”
“Sure.” Am I supposed to know which ones are maple leaves? There are four different shapes on the tray, which means I’ve got a twenty-five percent chance of getting it right. I dig through my brain for information, but I’m at a loss. Lucky for me, Frank bails me out, pointing to one of the larger shapes. “Thanks.” I grab the deep red sugar shaker and get to work, carefully sprinkling it over each of the maple leaves.
“How’d I do?” I’m not sure I want an honest assessment, but Frank gives me a nod that warms my chest.
