Chapter Ten
Cheyenne
Two weeks. That’s how long it’s been since Garrett walked out on Thanksgiving, and I’m finally starting to feel like a human being again instead of a walking tear factory.
I hang my coat by the door, the scent of vanilla and brown sugar hitting me as soon as I step inside the apartment.
Someone’s baking. Jhett scrambles over, his paws sliding on the hardwood as he nearly crashes into my legs.
“Hey, buddy,” I coo, dropping to my knees to give him a proper greeting. He’s been extra attentive since the breakup, like he knows I needed the emotional support of a furry therapist who works for treats and belly rubs.
“Genna?” I call out, straightening up and following both the delicious smell and the sound of clinking bowls.
“In here!” Her voice carries from the kitchen, slightly higher-pitched than normal. That’s her nervous voice.
I round the corner to find what looks like a baking bomb has exploded in our kitchen.
Flour dusts every surface, there are at least three mixing bowls out, and Genna stands in the center of it all, hair piled messily on top of her head, frantically scrolling through her phone with one hand while measuring vanilla extract with the other.
“Whoa.” I laugh, taking in the scene. “What’s the special occasion?”
Genna’s head snaps up, her eyes wide like I’ve caught her committing a crime. “The game tomorrow. We’re going to the game tomorrow afternoon, right? The tickets Dylan sent us?”
I nod, feeling a little flutter at the mention of his name. Which is ... new. And slightly concerning.
“Yeah, I remember. But I didn’t realize hockey spectating required homemade baked goods.”
“They don’t,” she mumbles, returning to her phone. “These are for Paul.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Paul? As in, the rookie Paul? Dylan’s teammate Paul?”
“Do we know another Paul?” She now measures sugar with shaking hands, spilling some on the counter. “Shoot!”
I cross over to her, gently taking the measuring cup. “Here, let me help before you burn the place down. Since when are you baking for Paul?”
Genna’s cheeks flush, making her look more like her teenage self than the confident woman I know. “Since he texted me after Dylan’s party. We’ve been talking since Thanksgiving.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” I’m genuinely surprised. Genna tells me everything, especially dating stuff.
She shrugs, looking slightly guilty. “You were still in mourning mode. I didn’t want to seem insensitive, talking about a new guy when you were still crying over Garrett.”
His name doesn’t sting as much as it did a week ago.
Progress.
“I’m your best friend. You’re allowed to have good things happening even when I’m sad.” I bump her with my hip. “So ... Paul, huh? The one with the ocean eyes, as you put it?”
Genna groans, covering her face with her hands, leaving a smudge of flour on her forehead. “Don’t remind me. I sounded so ridiculous.”
“I thought it was cute,” I tease, reaching for an apron hanging on a hook by the fridge. It’s red with white snowflakes, a holiday gift from Mrs. Williamston years ago. I tie it around my waist and roll up my sleeves. “So, what are we making for Ocean Eyes?”
“Chocolate chip cookies,” Genna says, her voice tinged with worry. “But what if he hates chocolate chip? What if he’s one of those weird people who likes oatmeal raisin better? Or what if he’s allergic to chocolate and I send him into anaphylactic shock before our first actual date?”
I can’t help but laugh at her spiral. “First of all, no one prefers oatmeal raisin. That’s a myth perpetuated by grandmothers, I think. Second, I’m pretty sure severe allergies would be mentioned in his NHL bio.”
“You don’t know that,” she argues, but she’s smiling now. “Maybe it’s a mild allergy. Maybe he just gets a little itchy.”
“Then he can scratch his hives while he enjoys your delicious cookies,” I say, checking the recipe she has pulled up. “Is this your mom’s recipe?”
“No.” Genna’s voice drops to a near whisper. “I actually found it online. It has, like, brown butter and sea salt and stuff. Apparently, it’s supposed to be foolproof for making someone fall in love with you.”
I stare at her for a moment before bursting into laughter. “Oh my gosh, Genna Williamston, are you making marry me cookies for a professional hockey player?”
“Stop!” She swats at me with a dish towel, but she’s laughing too. “I know it’s stupid. But they’re supposed to be really good cookies.”
“Well then,” I say, regaining my composure, “let’s see if they work.”
We fall into our familiar rhythm, moving around each other in the kitchen like we’ve done a thousand times before. Holiday music plays softly from the speaker in the corner—Mariah Carey belting about what she wants for Christmas, as if there were any other acceptable soundtrack for December baking.
Jhett watches us from his bed in the corner, his eyes tracking every movement, especially when butter is involved.
“Not for dogs,” I tell him firmly, but his tail still thumps against the floor optimistically.
The afternoon light streams through our kitchen window, casting everything in a warm glow that makes the whole scene feel like we’re in some kind of holiday commercial.
For a moment, I’m struck by how normal this feels—how good it feels to be doing something so ordinary after weeks of emotional chaos.
“So,” I say, measuring out flour while Genna browns butter on the stove. “Tell me about these texts from Paul. Anything juicy?”
She bites her lip, trying and failing to suppress a smile. “Nothing scandalous. Just ... nice. He’s funny. Not like Dylan-funny, where it’s all jokes and pranks, but quiet-funny. Like he thinks about what he says.”
“The strong, silent type.” I nod approvingly. “And does this strong, silent rookie know you’re baking him cookies?”
“Of course not!” Genna looks horrified at the thought. “I was planning to surprise him with them at the game. Like a normal, casual thing that normal, casual people do.”
“Totally normal. I always bring home-baked goods to sporting events. It’s the standard stadium snack.”
Genna reaches over and smears flour on my nose. “You’re the worst.”
“You love me,” I remind her.
Her phone pings, and she practically lunges for it, nearly knocking over the bowl of brown sugar. Her eyes scan the screen, and a slow smile spreads across her face.
“Paul?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
She nods, typing rapidly in reply to his text. “He wants to know if we need a ride to the arena tomorrow. Says he can arrange for a car service.”
“Fancy,” I comment. “What are you going to tell him?”
She finishes typing before looking up. “I said yes. I hope that’s okay? It’s just, parking at the arena is a nightmare, and—”
“It’s fine,” I assure her. “A car service sounds great.”
Her phone pings again, and this time when she reads the message, she bites her lip.
“What?” I prompt. “What did he say?”
She turns the phone so I can see the screen.
Paul: Can’t wait to see you tomorrow. Been thinking about you all week.
“Oh,” I breathe out. “That’s...”
“I know,” Genna whispers, her cheeks flushing again.
“Well, these cookies better be amazing,” I say, trying to lighten the moment. “They’ve got a lot to live up to.”
Genna tucks her phone away, but I notice her glancing at it every few minutes as we continue baking. The butter has browned to a perfect nutty aroma, and we mix it with the sugars until the mixture is creamy and smooth.
“What do you think Dylan will say?” Genna asks suddenly as we fold the chocolate chips into the batter. “About me and Paul, I mean.”
I hadn’t thought about that angle. “I’m not sure. He’s always been protective of you.”
“Overprotective,” she corrects. “Remember that guy from my chemistry class? Dylan practically ran a background check on him.”
I laugh, remembering how Dylan “coincidentally” showed up at the coffee shop where Genna was having a study date. “Yeah, but Paul’s his teammate. That’s different, right? He knows Paul.”
“True,” Genna concedes. “But he’s still my big brother. And Paul is three years younger than me, which Dylan pointed out at Thanksgiving.”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine with it,” I say, though I’m not entirely convinced. Dylan can be unpredictable when it comes to his sister. “Maybe we should make him some cookies too. You know, to butter him up to the idea.”
Genna’s eyes light up. “That’s genius! We have enough ingredients to make another batch.”
“I was kidding,” I start to say, but she’s already pulling out more butter. “Fine, more cookies it is.”
As we work on the second batch, I find myself wondering what kind of cookies Dylan would like best. Chocolate chip seems too ordinary for someone with his larger-than-life personality.
“What’s Dylan’s favorite cookie?” I ask.
Genna gives me a funny look. “Peanut butter chocolate chip. Why?”
“Just curious,” I say, focusing very intently on measuring flour. “Since we’re making him cookies and all...”
“Right,” she says slowly. “Well, lucky for you, we can just add peanut butter to this batch.”
We modify the recipe, and soon the kitchen is filled with the heavenly aroma of two different types of cookies baking in the oven. The timer ticks down, and I find myself feeling oddly nervous about how Dylan’s batch will turn out. Which is ridiculous. They’re just cookies.
Genna checks her phone again, smiling at whatever new message has come through.
“You know,” I say, leaning against the counter, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this smitten over a boy this quickly.”
She looks up, slightly embarrassed. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to someone who’s known you since middle school. But it’s nice. You deserve someone who makes you check your phone every thirty seconds and bake cookies for.”
The oven timer dings, and we both jump into action, pulling out perfectly golden cookies. They look magazine-worthy, crisp at the edges and soft in the center.
“They’re perfect,” Genna breathes, staring at them like they’re precious gems.
We transfer them carefully to cooling racks, the chocolate still molten and gooey. Once they’re cool enough, we begin packaging them—Paul’s in a festive tin with a red ribbon and Dylan’s in a simpler container.
“These are just a friendly gesture,” I say as I arrange Dylan’s cookies, not sure why I feel the need to clarify this. “Not marry me cookies.”
“Obviously,” Genna agrees, though there’s something in her tone I can’t quite read. “Just a ‘please don’t kill my potential boyfriend’ offering.”
When we’re finished, I sneak a small piece of plain cookie—no chocolate—to Jhett, who has been waiting patiently throughout the entire baking process. He takes it delicately from my fingers, then immediately swallows it whole.
“So much for savoring.” I laugh.
Genna wraps her arms around me, pulling me into a tight hug. “Thank you for helping me make perfect cookies for the perfect rookie.”
I hug her back, realizing how nice it feels to be focused on someone else’s romance instead of my own failed relationship. “Anytime. Though I expect full details if these cookies actually make him fall in love.”
“Deal,” she promises, pulling away to admire our handiwork once more.
Later, after we’ve cleaned up the kitchen and Genna’s gone to call Paul, I find myself sitting on the couch, absently scratching Jhett’s ears while staring at the container of cookies we made for Dylan.
Tomorrow, I’ll see him again at the game.
The thought sends an unexpected flutter through my stomach.
What is that about?
I mean, sure, Dylan’s been incredibly sweet these past two weeks. The ridiculous elf costume, the tree shopping, the dinner after ... He’s gone out of his way to cheer me up, and it’s worked. But this fluttery feeling when I think about seeing him again?
That’s new. And confusing.
Maybe it’s just gratitude. Or maybe it’s the natural response to being treated kindly after a breakup. Rebound feelings, or whatever psychology calls it.
Because developing actual feelings for Dylan Williamston would be completely insane. He’s Genna’s brother. He’s my friend. He’s a professional athlete with a different woman on his arm every weekend, if the tabloids are to be believed.
And yet...
I can’t quite shake the memory of how it felt sitting across from him at that Italian restaurant, when the world seemed to fade away for a moment. Or how he looked in the glow of the Christmas lights, helping decorate our tree.
“This is ridiculous,” I tell Jhett, who looks up at me with complete canine devotion. “I’m not interested in Dylan. That would be complicated and messy and ... ridiculous.”
Jhett tilts his head, unconvinced.
I glance at the cookies again and sigh. “I’m just excited about the hockey game. That’s all.”
But even to my own ears, it doesn’t sound very convincing.