Page 83 of Pucked Up Plans
“You eating all my extra cookies hardly scares me. It’s what would happen if I couldn’t share my extras with you that does.”
A lightning bolt hits. I now totally understand where she was coming from earlier. Because yeah. That scenario scares the shit out of me. And maybe we tread lightly from here on out. And go slowish.
Not wanting to admit my thoughts aloud, I nibble the cookie. Just as good as the other day. Or maybe even a tad better.
“Mmm,” I moan around the cranberry taste exploding on my tongue. “Delicious, Tate. Fucking delicious.”
“Thanks. Bree and I made some for the teachers for Christmas gifts.”
“How many cookies did you make today?”
“Like seven batches, maybe?” It’s a question, but her nonchalance implies howeasyit was.
“And how many cookies per batch?”
“Two dozen.”
Mentally I calculate how many cookies. Impressed is one way to show my appreciation. “One hundred sixty-eight cookies in a day? Damn, girl.”
“Give or take. I may have eaten a few along the way. Along with some of the dough.”
I want that. Eating the dough out of the bowl. Cookies right out of the oven. I don’t even care I’ve done it my entire life with my mother. I want this with Tate. And I have no qualms in letting her know.
“Next time, can I help?”
So “help” is a loose term. Luckily, she rebukes my bullshit.
“You can help Aubrey gather the ingredients. Help her find stuff she can’t read. How’s that forhelping?”
I should be more annoyed at how she makes fun of me, but I can’t stop the guffaw emanating from my mouth. I point at her. “Shut. Up. I loaded the dishwasher like a pro tonight.”
“I’ll give you that. But you still wiped your hands on the decorative towel. Can you work on that?”
“If you insist.” I did it on purpose. She’s so transparent about things done the way she likes.
“Your assistance is duly noted and appreciated.”
“Does Aubrey really help you cook and bake?”
Her face lights up. “She does. She’s much more helpful when we cook because she’ll eat the end product, but she loves being in the kitchen almost as much as I do. How about Lennon?”
“Lennon barely tolerateseatingfood, let alone preparing it. As for desserts, she has little patience for being exact. It’s not in her DNA.” I gulp more coffee, using it to stall for what I need to ask. “How did Aubrey’s father die?”
It’s been on my mind since she dropped the bomb earlier, but now’s the first chance I’ve had to inquire.
“Drug overdose.” There’s no emotion behind the words. “It’s the reason we moved.”
Over coffee and cookies, she regales me with the story of how he wasn’t interested in being a dad, how his family tried to make her get rid of the baby, how she never got a dime in child support. And when he suddenly passed away, his parents decided they wanted a relationship with Aubrey, the only piece of their son they had left.
By the time she’s done, she’s blown my mind.
At the audacity of his family.
At how much stronger she is than I recognized.
At the relief she feels getting it off her chest.
My eyes drift to the clock behind her. “Shit. Is it almost midnight?”
