Chapter 17
Nick and Rudy get in touch a few times early in the week, and when our chatting touches on the topic of holiday sweets, I invite them over to my house to bake cookies.
Unfortunately, I get caught up in a discussion when it’s time to leave work, and I end up having to rush through the grocery store in order to make it home in time to meet the Frost brothers.
Still slightly nervous but probably hoping for more butt rubs, Cupid lingers near the doorway to the kitchen while Nick, Rudy, and I unpack the grocery bags.
“We could have brought the ingredients,” Rudy says.
“It’s okay. I need to make a double batch tonight anyway, because we’re having a potluck luncheon at work tomorrow to thank our volunteers.
I’d have had plenty of time for grocery shopping if it wasn’t for a library patron coming in right before closing, demanding to give me an earful about a list of books they wanted me to ban. ”
Rudy’s jaw drops open. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was.”
“If you don’t like a book, don’t read it. I don’t understand why someone would feel the need to impose their view on others,” Nick says.
I just shake my head and shrug. Running a library is full of challenges lately, and I’m usually good about separating my work life and home life, but the men seem to notice that things are still bothering me, because they go out of their way to make cookie baking more fun than I’d have imagined it could be.
Nick makes up little songs and rhymes about the ingredients as Rudy adds them to the bowl with comical flourishes. When I realize I accidentally bought baking soda instead of baking powder, they tell me not to worry.
When we roll out the dough, they cut it into funny shapes, and talk in silly voices, portraying the raw gingerbread boys having conversations with each other about how they want to go on vacation somewhere very hot and get a tan.
“Oh no, I forgot to preheat the oven!”
“No problem,” Rudy says, giving my shoulders a relaxing squeeze as I push the buttons to belatedly turn on the oven. “There’s no rush.”
“There are other things we can do while we wait for it to heat up,” Rudy says.
“Make the icing?” I hope I bought the right kind of sugar for that.
“I had something more fun, and more relaxing, in mind.” He pulls me back against him, my back to his front, and starts massaging my shoulders with his strong, capable hands.
I’m stiff at first, but as he works his magic, I melt into him, so much so that when the oven dings to tell us it’s reached the needed temperature, I don’t even register the sound.
Nick puts the pan in and sets the timer, then steps in front of me, so he can kiss me while his brother continues to massage me. Best cookie-baking session ever.
When the timer dings, I reluctantly pull myself away to retrieve the oven mitt from a nearby drawer. Then I open the oven door and see the cookies. “Oh no.”
“What’s wrong?” Rudy leans over to have a look.
“We no longer have cookies. We have cookie. They’ve all blobbed together.” The shapes are completely indistinguishable.
“Maybe we goofed around too much and made a mistake,” Nick says as I plop the pan on the stovetop.
“Maybe it was the baking soda, or powder.” I can’t even remember which one I used now.
To prevent the next pan of cookies from having the same result, Rudy suggests we mix more flour into the dough, and since we already rolled and cut the next set of cookies, we have to lump the dough back together and do it all over again.
I’m frustrated by the double work, but the men are still making it fun.
When the new, and hopefully improved cookies are in the oven on a second pan, I see if I can salvage anything from the first batch, but now that they’ve cooled, they’re brittle and stuck to the pan.
When I voice my frustration, Rudy takes the spatula from me. “I’ll get them. Don’t worry. The next ones will be better.”
Meanwhile, Nick picks up a fragment, pops it into his mouth, and declares that they still taste good. Then he holds a piece up to my mouth. He watches me chew—and he’s right, they do at least taste good, even if I’m not sure they’re still technically cookies—then feeds me another bite.
He follows that up with a kiss, then another, and another. Rudy joins us, and then the three of us are full on making out, the two men passing me back and forth between them, both of them keeping their hands on me no matter who I’m kissing at the time.
Nick has a hold of my hip, his hand gripping me like I’m his, while Rudy devours my mouth, making me hungry and dizzy and needy. I stroke his beard, then slide my fingers into his thick hair and pull him closer to—
“What’s that smell?” I peel my mouth off of Rudy’s. “Oh shit, the cookies!”
They’re not so blobby this time. They’re fairly well defined, with very crisp, very black edges. The tops were probably golden brown several minutes ago, but they’re well past that stage.
“I forgot to set the timer,” Nick says, though of course, it’s not his responsibility.
“Can we scrape off the dark parts?” Rudy asks, but when he gets a better look at them, he immediately abandons that idea.
“We have more dough,” Nick says, but I toss the oven mitt on the counter.
“I give up. How hard is it to get one freaking pan of cookies to come out right—just one?” There’s no reason for me to be this upset, but it’s embarrassing and frustrating, and I’m tired, or maybe it’s the up and down roller coaster of emotions this evening, but I’m suddenly near tears, for no good reason.
“Hey, come here.” Rudy wraps his arms around me and rubs my back. “It’s okay.”
“I won’t have anything to take into work tomorrow.”
“It’s okay. It’s just cookies.” He scoops me into his arms, and I rest my head on his shoulder. He nods toward the oven, prompting Nick to turn it off, then Rudy carries me out to the living room with Nick following behind.
“We didn’t manage to make cookies, but we made a few memories,” Nick says as Rudy settles onto the couch, with me crosswise on his lap.
That gets a smile out of me, and when Nick takes my feet and starts to massage them, I let out a sigh.
“Sorry I’m in a mood tonight,” I say.
Rudy nuzzles my neck and strokes my hair. “There’s nothing wrong with that. I hope things go better tomorrow.”
Work is a stressor sometimes, for sure, but if I’m being honest, a big part of the distress I’m feeling is coming from the fact that I’m falling for four men, and they’re all going to expect a decision from me sooner or later—probably sooner than later—and the more time I spend with them, the less I can imagine how I’m going to decide among them.
But I can’t think about that right now, because the men’s hands are starting to wander.