Page 27 of Wild Heart
A frustrated tear pools, and I quickly dab it away with the back of my hand before I turn around. “Raisin Cookies to Die For.” I plaster on a fake toothy grin and offer him the granules.
“Cookies?” He doesn't look convinced as he reaches out for the tray.
“For you,” I say cheerily. “They’re a little brittle, but that doesn’t mean they don't taste amazing.”
“Brittle?” Thick brows hitch with surprise or agreement.
“I followed the instructions with just a few modifications.”
Hayden pinches a heap of broken bits, tips his head back and lets the dry rubble fall into his mouth. He chews once, with a hum. Twice, he forces a smile. Three times, he tries to swallow. “No raisins.” His tongue skates around his gums, cleaning away the remnants. “Very sweet.” He clears his throat. “An unusual taste.”
“There weren’t any raisins in your cupboards, so I left them out.” I shrug. “And a few other things, but I added more honey.”
“And you’ve made those before?” He folds his arms. “And people eat them?” His lips quirk.
“I’ve never made cookies. Well, I’ve never made anything before, except a salty rock cake.” His eyes aren’t on the tray, they’re locked with mine. Intense and green. Gorgeous and alive. “I wanted to make you something, as a thank you for being so thoughtful. It’s like you get me, or you don't care that I’m different. Anyway…” I smile tightly, holding back my nerves. His height, muscle mass, shadowed jaw and pensive stare have me all in knots and twists. I swear he’s the best-looking man I’ve laid eyes on. “I’d usually buy something, but I thought a handmade gift was more meaningful. So, I found a recipe online and made this from scratch.” He eyes me closely. “I’m sorry I’ve wrecked your kitchen. I’ll have it spotless before I leave.”
“I’m flattered.” The right side of his mouth lifts slightly, causing my pulse to race.
“You are?”
“Yeah. I’m the first guy you made a batch of…”
“Raisin Cookies to Die For...” I prompt.
“Oaty Crumble, perhaps?” He offers a wide full smile, and I almost keel over. “How about we tidy up, and I’ll show you my mother’s recipe for oatmeal raisin cookies, which are my favorite, by the way?”
I’m gushing. “I’d like that, Hayden. My mother buys cookies from the local bakery.”
“Right then. Hank is in Heartville with his lady friend, Verlyne. I’ll ask him to bring home the ingredients.” He nods at the tray. “Do you want to take that home with you?”
“Uh… don’t you want some more?”
“Have you tried it, Summer?”
“It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“Not bad, just...” I could tell he was searching for an inoffensive way to tell me that Franken-Cookie needed to be thrown out. “Different.”
“We’ll make some more.” I stroll to the trash can and hear chunky hard rocks of cookie pelt the bottom.
14
We have allthe ingredients to make cookies from scratch, now that my dad has delivered the items to the kitchen. He gives me a stern scowl as he sets the grocery bags on the table.
“Cookies you say?” His inquisitive eyes hold Summer to the spot. “Smells like something was incinerated in here.”
I love how her cheek dimples slightly when she tries to explain the heap of burned gravel she made earlier. She actually attempted to bake something. The weirdest sensation of pride or plain old gratitude hangs around in my chest as I watch her. My mother was the last woman to set out fresh oatmeal cookies for me. Granted, they were always the finest darn baked goods around, and Summer has big boots to fill… but her effort gets an A+.
“It was something else,” I interject. “Unlike anything I’ve ever tasted.”
Her pretty lashes flutter, and a hint of pink warms her pale skin. “Hayden is going to teach me how to make cookies using his mother’s recipe.”
My father bows his head. “I miss that smell around the house.”
Noting his heavy heart, Summer wanders to his side and takes his hand in hers. “Then this batch is just for you, Hank.” She glances back at me. “I’ll make more for you another day. If you don’t mind.”
Something pings inside my chest. It’s not pain or unpleasant, more of a stretch. I think it’s my heart growing, making room for this woman to live in. “Sure,” I mutter.
