7

Gavin

What the fuck was that?

My head swam as I hobbled out of the coffee shop, leaving Skylar behind. Tempting was one thing, but I’d sat there staring—daydreaming about making out with her.

Okay, fine, I’d been daydreaming about more than just making out.

But why had I acted like an inexperienced kid? I was never like that around girls. Something about Skylar had emptied my brain. I’d touched her hand out of nowhere, stared at her mouth, and had I even said anything interesting? Probably not.

This was very not like me. Usually I was charming as fuck.

Of course, I didn’t need to be charming with her. I didn’t want to go over that argument with myself again, so I just struggled into my truck and went back to the park to pick up my brother.

The next day, I was no closer to figuring out why I’d been so weird with Skylar. I couldn’t stop thinking about her, either. About her captivating eyes and full lips. The way her soft skin had felt when I’d touched her hand.

Touched her hand? I was getting a fucking boner remembering the way her hand felt. What was that about?

Cara—Grace’s bestie—had texted me earlier, asking if I’d come over, so I drove over to her place and parked outside her hillside house. I didn’t know what she had going on, but it was better than trying to talk myself out of going over to Chief’s house to see if I could covertly touch Skylar’s hand again.

Seriously? What was wrong with me?

Cara’s house was hella nice. She had money. Lots of money. I didn’t know why—I’d never asked—but it was obvious that she did. Even in college she’d driven an expensive car. And remodeling this place had to have cost a fortune. She liked to throw parties, so I’d been here plenty of times.

I liked Cara, and she was crazy hot. She had that wild redhead thing going on. Cara was dangerous, and normally that kind of thing was like crack to me. But as much as I liked flirting with her, I was just messing around. I’d never really seen her as a girl I could get dirty with.

Not that I thought she’d invited me over to get dirty. She hadn’t made it clear what she wanted. But with a girl like Cara—who didn’t really date guys so much as decide that she’d allow one to give her orgasms for a while—you never knew what she was going to do.

But at this point, I was too curious not to go in. I knocked on her door.

A second later, my phone buzzed.

Cara: Come in. My hands are dirty.

Hands were dirty with what?

I opened the door, crutched my way inside, and pushed the door closed behind me.

“I’m in the kitchen,” she called.

My crutches clicked on the wood floor. Most of the downstairs was wide open with big windows showcasing the view of the river. It looked like a magazine spread or a showroom. Almost too perfect—hardly looked like anyone lived here.

Except for the kitchen.

The big island was cluttered with ingredients, bowls, cups, random utensils, and a lot of flour. She had a martini with two olives and her phone was on a stand, paused on what looked like a cooking video.

Cara stood with her hands held up at boob height, wincing like she’d just gutted an animal and was covered in blood, rather than a messy combination of flour, sugar, butter, and probably something else, given how drippy it was.

“This asshole said to mix by hand, but mine doesn’t look anything like his.”

I step-crutched my way into the kitchen. “What are you doing?”

“Baking.”

“Are you sure?” I glanced into the soupy mess in her bowl. “What are you trying to bake?”

“Cookies.”

“That doesn’t look like cookie dough.”

“I know,” she groaned. “These are supposed to be foolproof, but apparently Chef fucking Hartley hasn’t met me.”

“Who’s Chef Hartley?”

She nodded to her phone. “Guy in the video.”

“Well that’s your problem. You don’t learn to bake cookies from a fancy chef on the internet.”

“Who are you supposed to learn from, then?”

“Native grandmas. Or non-Native grandmas, but you can’t convince me that Native grandmas don’t have something special when it comes to cooking. There’s a reason Gram’s pies win at the Mountain Man festival every year and I’m sure it’s genetic.”

“Well, I don’t have a grandma, Native or otherwise.”

“No, but you have the next best thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Me.”

“You know how to bake cookies.” Her voice dripped with skepticism.

“Fuck yeah, I know how to bake cookies.” I moved to stand next to her and started pushing stuff around to clear a space on the counter. “I learned from the best. Dump that out. We’ll start over. By the way, how’d you text me if your hands are covered in that disaster you thought was cookie dough?”

“I voice texted.” She dumped the bowl and rinsed it out.

“Cool. Okay, do you have chocolate chips?”

“Yeah, four or five different kinds. I wasn’t sure what to get, so I bought some of everything.”

I glanced at all the shit she’d left on the counter. “I can see that.”

She dried out the bowl with a clean towel and set it on the counter. “When I texted you to come over, I figured we’d just fumble around the kitchen and then have to dare each other to eat what we made. Not that you’d know what you were doing.”

I laughed. “I spent a lot of time in the kitchen with Gram. Probably because I was the youngest. She always put me to work.”

“Of course she did.”

“Why the sudden interest in learning to bake?”

“I’m just bored. Thought I’d find a new hobby.”

“Does that have anything to do with your bestie having a baby?”

She picked up her drink and took a sip. “Obviously. Everyone knows I’m overly attached to Grace.”

“You guys do have a weird relationship.”

“I know.”

Poor kid was lonely.

I used her phone to find a recipe that looked close to the one I remembered and walked her through it. Chocolate chip cookies weren’t hard, but if you didn’t know anything—which Cara clearly did not—there were plenty of ways to go wrong. I showed her how to measure everything properly and to follow the recipe directions, not just dump everything in a bowl at once. Then we dropped the dough in little balls on a cookie sheet and put them in the oven.

“You’re going to have to take these home with you,” she said, dropping another row of cookies on the second baking sheet.

“Why?”

“Because otherwise I’ll eat them all. I can’t be trusted.”

“No problem. I’ll take them to the firehouse. They’ll last about five minutes.” I went around the island and hoisted myself onto a stool, then leaned my crutches against the counter. “Just keep doing what you’re doing until you run out of dough. I need to sit for a minute.”

“Does your leg hurt?”