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Ingredients lined one countertop while a half dozen mixing bowls took up another.
Sensing his presence, she lifted her head. Instead of being startled or embarrassed, she flashed him a bright smile that was like a shot of pure sunshine to his soul. She immediately dialed it back like she didn’t want to frighten him.
He knew that was his fault.
He’d caused her to question herself.
Oh, Asa, you really are a dipshit.
“Hi,” she said, sounding cautious and careful. “I’m making cookies.”
“Yeah?” he asked.
“Well, I’m gonna try,” she amended, glancing at all of her supplies. “I haven’t made cookies since I was fifteen.” She tapped on the tablet on the island in front of her. “I’m looking for a recipe that looks vaguely familiar.”
He’d been a dick. She had every right to call him on his shit and shame him back into the basement. But there she was, making cookies. Talking to him like he was still her friend.
He was going to be a better friend.
He pushed off the wall and came forward, craning his neck to see the screen. “What kind of cookies?”
“Chocolate chip.”
He nodded. “Classic.”
Stopping by her side, he eyed the recipe she had been studying. Looked about right. His eyes drifted to her and he realized she was gazing up at him, questions in those amber gold cosmic swirls she dared to call eyes.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.” A soft smile spread across her face and she shrugged. “I just haven’t seen you in a while.”
He swallowed. “I’m sorry about that. I’ve since pulled my head out of my ass.”
“Good.”
That was it. No guilt trip, no hesitation. Just acceptance and grace.
Something in his ribcage took its first easy breath in too long of a time. It was too complex for him to call his lungs. But it was something.
His eyes couldn’t decide which part of her to focus on. Her smile, her insane braid, or the fact that she was only wearing one earring. He touched her empty earlobe and her eyebrows dipped. “You’re missing an earring.”
She grabbed the earlobe and her gaze lost focus. “Ha.” Her lips quirked to the side. “Maybe I’m making a style choice.”
He rolled his lips inward and took a step back. “Okay, killer. Do you want help with these cookies?” He glanced around the kitchen, rubbing his palms together.
“Really?” she asked, sounding surprised.
Guilt rolled through him and he shook it off. He could be better. Hewouldbe better.
He washed his hands in the sink and dried them on a paper towel. “You know that story about the Little Red Hen?” he asked.
She narrowed those otherworldly eyes.
“I know how it goes.” He tossed the paper towel in the trash. “I don’t get cookies unless I help make the cookies.” He held his hands out. “And I definitely want cookies.”
She grinned and spun around on her toes, making a little squeaking noise that sounded like, “Yay!”
He shook his head and came up beside her again, looking at the recipe.
