Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 83718 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83718 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Molly shakes her head. “Nope. Even Brayden needs to have real food for dinner.” She points to me over Noah’s shoulder. “His muscles will shrivel up and disappear if he doesn’t eat healthy foods.”
Noah curls his arm to flex his bicep. “I have muscles too, Rayden.”
I grin. “I see that. You must be really strong.”
Noah nods solemnly and offers me a candy-cane-shaped cookie cutter. “You want a turn?”
I arch a brow. “Are you sure?”
Noah nods. “I got to make the rest. You can help.”
Rolling up my sleeves, I go to the sink and wash my hands, and when I turn back to the mother and son, there’s a look on Molly’s face I can’t read. I’m aware of her eyes on me with every move—as Noah gives me the cookie cutter and shows me how to press it into the dough, and as we work together to put the cookie on the sheet with the others.
“I used to make cookies with my mom every Christmas,” I tell Noah. “She’d make dozens and dozens of cookies of all kinds.”
Noah’s jaw drops. “Did you get to eat them all?”
“Not too many. Mom made them as gifts for every family we knew, so my brothers and Shay and I had to fight over what was left. My favorites were the thumbprint cookies with the jam in the middle.” I hand Noah the cookie cutter and watch him cut several more candy canes. I’m impressed with his fine motor skills. When Lilly was his age, she’d tear up the dough trying to move it onto the cookie sheet, and she’d always get frustrated. Now, however, she’s become quite the little chef. She and Noah would probably have a blast making cookies together, if Noah could deal with her bossing him around.
“My favorite is the frosting kind,” he says, transferring the cookies carefully. “Mom said we can’t frost these till tomorrow, but then I can eat one.”
“After dinner,” she says.
Noah scowls and mumbles, “After dinner,” like he was hoping she’d forget that part.
“Speaking of dinner,” she says. I almost expected her to avoid me, so I’m surprised when her eyes lock on mine. “I’m going to slide these into the oven and clean up our mess so we can make tonight’s meal. How does spaghetti sound?”
“Yes!” Noah pumps his fist in the air before looking at me. “You like basketti?”
“I do,” I say cautiously, my gaze flicking to Molly’s. After last night, I don’t want to overstep and interrupt their family time.
“Good,” she says. “You can make the salad while I cook the rest.” She brushes a lock of hair out of her face and leaves a streak of flour behind. “Noah, if you get cleaned up, you can watch cartoons until dinner.”
The kid races from the kitchen and up the stairs like she just told him the entire cast of Paw Patrol was waiting in his room.
Molly pops the cookies into the oven and takes a deep breath as she surveys the mess. Without a word, she rolls her shoulders back and gets to work, packing up ingredients to return to the pantry, stacking mixing bowls and measuring cups, and wiping down the counter.
I go to the sink while she cleans, filling it with hot, soapy water to take care of the bigger mixing bowls.
“You don’t have to do that.”
I shoot her a glance over my shoulder and have to bite back a laugh. The kitchen might be cleaner, but she’s not. “You look like you’ve been attacked by a bag of flour.”
She props her hands on her hips. “I want to see you make cookies with a four-year-old without turning into a hot mess.”
I turn off the water and turn to her. “I didn’t say I didn’t like it.” I resist the urge to drag my focus down her body slowly, but it takes all my self-control. Molly undone. That’s how I think of her when she’s like this. I don’t need an advanced psych degree to understand why I find this version of her even more irresistible than the perfectly pressed and put-together businesswoman who runs my banquet center. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Really?”
Nodding, I step closer, aware of her eyes on me and the way her body tenses and then relaxes as I step into her personal space—like she’s fighting an internal battle between the part of her that wants me to keep that distance and the part that wants me to close it.
“Careful, or I’ll get flour on your fancy shirt.” Her gaze darts over my shoulder—checking that we’re still alone, no doubt—before returning to my face.
“I’ll risk it.” I brace my arms on the counter on either side of her and lean forward. “I never got the chance to apologize last night.”
“Apologize?”
She’s close enough to kiss. I don’t. “I’m sorry I believed that video even for a minute.”