Chapter Nine
Matthew Cole is in Crescent Lake.
I haven’t seen or heard from him in over two years now, and here he is, in this small town, living his life. Without me.
I mean, of course, he is. What did I expect?
Maybe an inkling that he missed me. That he realized he’d made a mistake.
But I saw nothing of that in him. Though I did recognize he had a panic attack. And that it didn’t start until he laid eyes on me.
It’s best if I stay clear of him.
The cold air freezes the tip of my nose by the time I make it back to The Cozy Crescent. I slip inside, immediately greeted by the smell of baking cookies, making my mouth water.
After going up to my room and hanging my coat, I take off my shoes and trot back downstairs and into the kitchen.
Will stands with his back to me, looking down at a row of baking sheets on the counter.
“Those smell delicious!”
He jumps at the sound of my voice, and my hand slaps over my mouth.
Every. Time. I need to remember to announce my entrances so I don’t give this guy a heart attack.
Will turns to me with a huge grin, letting me see his happy face and absolutely adorable Thanksgiving-themed apron, black with a cute cartoon turkey covering the whole front, holding up a steaming pie with one wing.
“I’m glad you’re back,” he says, those blue eyes so sincere. “You can be my taste-tester.”
My body bounces at the prospect, and I’m all smiles as I near him. “Put me and my belly to work!”
His laugh is melodious as he turns to a cabinet, retrieves a plate, then heads to his baking sheets and starts placing one cookie from each sheet onto it. Six cookies meet my wide eyes before he slides the plate onto the kitchen island, along with a napkin. “Milk?”
My gaping face gives an affirmative nod, and he chuckles his way to the fridge. Once I have my glass of moo-juice, I look up at him, head shaking in disbelief. “What’s all this for?”
His head tilts, those beautiful eyes getting a faraway look.
“Thanksgiving is in a few days, and it’s a tradition here in Crescent Lake for us to cook and bake up a storm.
We have volunteers with trucks bring the food and sweets to a couple of local soup kitchens and food banks outside of town.
Trucks will be by tomorrow to start picking up donations.
” That warm smile of his lights up his face again.
“I wanted to bake this year, give my mom’s old recipes a workout.
But I need to know that I made them right, so you can be my taste tester. ”
I let out a laugh, letting go of noticing the glimpse of sadness that darkened his eyes at the mention of his mom. He seems determined to stay positive, and I’ll respect that. For now.
That Crescent Lake is so wholesome and kind, getting the whole town together to help the less fortunate, makes warmth blossom in my chest, and my eyes grow hot.
Trying to keep it together, I assess the cookies on my plate as a distraction.
Good old chocolate chip. Sugar. One that I think is peanut butter.
A chocolate cookie with white chunks and bits of what I think are almonds.
A soft-baked oatmeal. And a small spherical cookie, flat on the bottom, covered in cinnamon and sugar, which I point at.
“What kind of cookie is that? I’ve never seen one before. It smells really good.”
He gets that somewhat sad look in his eyes again, and I wish I’d never asked. The compulsion to wrap him in my arms and chase that sorrow away comes over me like madness, and one of my hands clench with the effort not to be inappropriate with someone I hardly know.
“Those are pan de polvo. My dad’s favorite.”
Sadness. At the mention of Will’s mom. Of his dad.
I swallow my questions, file them for later, and force a smile at my awaiting cookies before taking a bite of each, followed by sipping my milk, letting the delicious flavors bring me joy. Once I’ve tasted each of them, I peer up at Will after another sip of milk. “You, sir, are a Baking King.”
The smile that breaks across his face is bright as a star. “Really?”
It’s like he doesn’t believe me. That’s crazy!
“Yes,” I tell him firmly. “All of these are amazing. But I’ll tell you something,” I go back to the little spherical cookie, popping the last of two bites into my mouth. “Your dad’s favorite is my new favorite.”
Those sapphire eyes glisten in the overhead lights, and that uncontrollable urge to wrap him in my arms overtakes me again. So, I hop off the barstool and place my hands on my hips to break the gloomy vibe my running-mouth always seems to create when it comes to Will.
“Now, gear me up with an apron so I can help.”