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“Duly noted,” he smiles and gives a mini salute. “So, what are we making today?”
“Thumbprint cookies,” I say proudly, as I tie my apron and wash my hands. “They were my favorite when I was a kid.” As Drew washes his hands, I tell him how the cookies got their name. Before you put the cookies in the oven, you gently press your thumb in the middle of them to make a small dip where whatever flavor of jelly can go. Once they’ve cooled, you can then add a drizzle of icing which just adds to the yummy flavor.
“I like them because they’re not too sweet,” I explain, as we start portioning out butter, flour, sugar—the usual suspects.
“Okay, I know it’s been a while since I’ve made them but the last time I checked, cookies are supposed to be sweet.” His words are thick with suspicion as he eyes the oatmeal among our ingredients.
“They’re not plain like oatmeal cookies, I promise. I didn’t say they weren’t sweet,” I correct him. “I just said they’re the right kind of sweet.”
“And what would that be?”
“The kind where you feel like you could eat the whole tray of cookies and not get sick of the taste,” I say, as I start portioning the flour.
“Ah, gotcha.” He nods as I hand him a wooden spoon, but he still looks at me like he’s about to start laughing.
“What?” I ask, as he steps closer to me. He raises his hand to my face and gently brushes his thumb across my cheek. “You had a spot of flour on your cheek,” he whispers.
His touch lingers on my skin for a moment longer than one would expect, but I don’t move away. I search his gaze as he locks eyes with mine before he snaps out of the reverie and turns his attention back toward the mixing bowl.
“So, what’s next?” he asks, giving me a shy smile.
“You’re going to be the muscle,” I say, as I measure out the rolled oats.
“How do you mean?” he asks as he carefully stirs.
“It gets tougher to stir the more oats you put in,” I say, doing just that. “I’ll just add in a little at a time but when I make these myself, I feel like my arm is going to fall off.”
“It’s like you have to earn the cookies,” he chuckles, and I can’t help but agree.
“But like I said, they’ll taste better the more effort you put in.” I slowly begin adding the oats. Suddenly, I’m very aware of the closeness of our bodies.
I giggle when I see him struggling to stir the oats that I keep adding in. He gives me a look like he thought I was joking before, but he’s determined not to be outdone by a heavy oat cookie batter. I add the last of the oats, then start cleaning up and putting ingredients away as he combines the last of the dough.
I feel his eyes on me as I travel around the room putting things back where they belong. Not just once, but twice, I catch Drew’s eyes looking my body up and down before they dart back to the dough he’s mixing.
The first time, I assumed it was a fluke. The second time, I decide it’s no coincidence.
By the time both of us are done, all we have out is the cookie batter, baking sheets, and three jars of jam accompanied by the icing ingredients.
“That was fast,” he says, looking around the now clean space as if scattered baking ingredients were never there.
“I like to clean as I go. Then I’m not left with a massive mess at the end,” I say, as I load the last of the measuring cups into the dishwasher. “Plus, it’s not my kitchen, so I want to make sure it’s just as clean as when we started.”
“That’s very well-mannered of you.” He smiles as I show him how to make the right size cookie.
“Trust me,” I continue, “you don’t want to be on the wrong side of Chef’s wrath.”
“Thankfully, these cookies don’t really spread out too far on the pan, so we can put more of them on the sheets,” I add, as we start making the balls of dough.
When I bake on my own, I find it easy to get lost in a kind of groove, a flow, where I’m not paying attention to the time or how long I’m taking to work. I bake to get out of my own head. I like using my hands because, in a way, it lets me be productive and feel like I’m accomplishing something good that doesn’t involve my normal work. It’s usually something just for me but getting the chance to share it with someone else definitely feels even better.
I somehow still manage to get lost in the process of scooping, rolling, and placing the cookies onto the sheet, then repeating. However, I quickly snap out of that when Drew’s hand touches mine as we both reach for the bowl. We both pull our hands away for a moment, and my stomach goes fluttery and weird. He lets me take my next scoop first, before jumping back in himself. I try to keep my gaze focused on my hands, but my mind spins at a million miles a minute.
Why do I get so weird with him sometimes? He’s just a man. No, he’s a guest. And yes, he’s handsome and I can like how he looks, but I need to think about what happens once his stay is done. He’s going back to New York and I’m staying here. I hate long-distance relationships, so it can’t go anywhere. Let it go. I tell myself, as we finish shaping the last of the dough.
But I really don’t want to.
“Okay,” I say, as I fill the bowl with hot water. “Now is the fun part,” I add, as I tell him how to make the right thumbprint.
