Page 39 of Rare Blend
At the word “cookie” he grunts and whines, circling around me.
Jesus Christ.
I take a quick peek through the window at Marisa’s cottage to make sure she’s not outside. Quietly, I open the front door enough to crouch down and grab the tin. It feels wrong to take them after I so rudely refused them, but it also feels wrong to not take them.
I set the tin on the kitchen counter, Goose’s nose bumping into the back of my thigh as I stop. He stares at me, his brown, pleading puppy dog eyes boring into me.
“Fine.” I give in and pluck the first cookie off the stack to hand to him.
They’re fairly small and look like a sugar cookie or cinnamon. Either way, they’re safe enough for Goose to have one.
He gobbles it down in one bite and happily trots away to lie down on his bed.
The tin is still open, staring at me. I wasn’t lying, I’m really not a sweets guy. Still, they do look really good, and the cinnamon-sugar aroma swirls in the air, tantalizing me. It would be a waste to not at least have one.
Fuck it.
I plop one in my mouth, and it melts on my tongue. Soft and moist, still warm from the oven. Fuck me. Of course they’re delicious. I find myself reaching for another before I’ve fullyswallowed the first. The warmth of the cookies spreads through me. They’re the perfect balance of crisp edges and tender center.
Maybe I am a sweets guy after all, but only if they’re coming from Marisa.
Only allowing myself the two cookies, I close the tin and put it away in a cabinet. It doesn’t matter how good they are, I’m not deserving of them and it feels wrong to allow myself to indulge too much.
Wide awake now, I feel restless. I try to find something to do until I can go back to bed. The cottage is clean, but I sweep and vacuum it again and wash the two dishes in the sink, all the while my gaze continues to drift out the windows, looking for a sign of the beautiful brunette next door.
Over the next hour, the guilt stews—my stomach starts to curl in on itself at how much of a dick I’ve been to Marisa. This isn’t me. Sure, I’m rough around the edges, but not like this. I’ve been an absolute asshole to her, and she’s done nothing to deserve my poor treatment.
Dammit. She’s getting under my skin, and I’m going to let her. I can’t keep acting like an immature idiot. It ends now. I’m probably too late, the damage has been done. I can’t take back my words, but I can at least apologize.
The sun has set, but it’s only eight.
Though the outside of Marisa’s cottage is dark, I hear the low murmur of voices coming from the TV and it’s enough of a sign to tell me she’s still awake.
I knock twice and hear rustling before she opens the door.
Her eyes are unblinking, shocked even. But that’s not what catches my attention. It’s the red rims around them. It’s the puffy nose. It’s the moisture on her cheeks.
She’s been crying.
And I feel like an absolute piece of shit. Iama piece of shit.
“What do you want?” she says, sniffling and wiping her cheeks with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. Her voice is garbled and trembling.
Those tear-soaked brown eyes will haunt me for the rest of my life. And knowing I’m the one who made them that way creates an ache that throbs in my chest.
“I’m… I’m?—”
“Here to keep being mean to me? To keep throwing your man tantrum?” she says, cutting me off.
Man tantrum? “No… I?—”
“Spit it out already. I don’t have all night. And you’re about two seconds from getting this door slammed in your face.”
I deserve that. I deserve worse, honestly.
She shakes her head, eyes rolling as she starts to close the door.
I put my foot over the threshold to stop it from fully shutting. “Wait.”
