Chapter 4 #2
Her entire face softens. “You…I…Hayes,” her voice cracks and she swipes a stray tear from her cheek. “If you told me that, I’d donate the cookies!” Emmy slaps my chest.
“You’re running a business, Em. I can afford to buy a few dozen cookies to donate and support a friend at the same time.”
Her lips part, trembling just a hair. “I think we both know you’re more than just a friend, Hayes.”
The words pull the breath right out of my chest. And I know—I know—she didn’t mean it like that. Not intentionally. There’s no way.
She realizes what she’s said a second later and clears her throat hard, stepping back like being this close to me is too much. “I just mean—you’re like family. You always have been. You’re good and kind. Even when life hasn’t been.”
My jaw clenches. There are a dozen things I want to say—none of which I feel like I’m allowed to. So I do the safe thing.
I lift the order slip and tap it. “So. Cookies. You gonna let me help or are we gonna stand here making each other cry like two sentimental grandmas?”
That earns me a watery laugh. “Fine,” she sniffles. “Six dozen it is. But if you burn even one—”
“Emmy, I’m offended. I’m a professional.”
“At firefighting,” she says, hands on her hips.
“And cookie-making.”
“You’re not allowed to have two professions if one of them is literally saving lives, Hayes.”
“Watch me.”
She tries to hide her smile but fails spectacularly. “Ugh. You’re impossible.”
“Part of my charm.”
“Wrong. That’s part of your problem.”
“Pretty sure my only problem is you never believe in my baking abilities.”
She throws a dishtowel at me. “Your baking abilities are a myth.”
I catch the towel and grin. “You wound me.”
“You have to follow the recipe exactly. No improvising. Those kids are allergic to everything under the sun.”
“Relax,” I say, brushing a knuckle lightly along her arm as I pass her to get to the industrial mixer. “I’m not trying to send anyone into anaphylactic shock.”
She narrows her eyes. “Hayes, I mean it. No nuts. No almond extract. No weird stuff you saw on TikTok.”
I grin over my shoulder. “Emmy, sweetheart, the day I take baking tips from TikTok, please put me out of my misery.”
She makes a face at “sweetheart,” and I pretend not to notice the way her cheeks pink.
I wash my hands, grab the metal bowl, and start measuring flour like I haven’t been doing this since we were twelve and trying to steal cookie dough before Pappy could whack our knuckles with his wooden spoon.
Emmy moves into her own rhythm beside me—pulling butter from the fridge, softening it in the microwave, rummaging through drawers for her measuring spoons. I know this dance. I know her in a kitchen. It’s been years, but it comes back instantly.
She’s focused on browning the butter and sugar, so she doesn’t see me reach into the pocket of my jacket draped over the chair. Doesn’t see the tiny bottle of maple extract I palm, the same brand Pappy used when he made his pancake syrup every Christmas.
Just a dash. Barely enough to scent the air.
I tilt the bottle over the mixing bowl, flick my wrist, and the smallest drop falls in. Warm, woodsy. Familiar.
By the time she turns back, I’m adding the chocolate chips like a damn saint.
“See?” I say lightly. “No nuts. No danger. Just nostalgia.”
She eyes me skeptically, scanning the ingredients. “Mm-hm. If a single kid breaks out in hives, I’m blaming you.”
“Fair enough.” I bump her hip with mine, and warmth shoots up my side like I touched a live wire. “But they won’t. Promise.”
The short list of allergens on the order slip assures me that a little maple won’t be hurting anyone.
She rolls her eyes and sets the mixer to stir. “You better not be trying to one-up me with your cookies. I have a reputation, Hayes.”
“Oh, I know.” I lean on the counter, watching the dough spin. “Your cookies are sacred. But I think the kindergarteners can handle a little friendly competition.”
“They’re five.”
“Exactly. The toughest critics.”
She snorts, but she’s smiling. Big, bright, smile-all-the-way-to-her-eyes smiling and then she’s back to moving around me. She hums without realizing it, soft and soothing, the way she does when she’s falling back into her rhythm.
God, I love watching her like this.
Focused.
In her element.
Light pouring out of her like the North star. She doesn’t even know she glows.
I measure the butter by feel—earned practice, years in the making.
“You’re not using the scale,” she accuses, horrified.
“Scales are for people without instincts.”
“Instincts don’t keep dough from turning into soup.”
“Mine do.”
“You’re infuriating.”
“And yet,” I say, leaning just close enough she feels it, “you let me in your kitchen.”
Her breath catches.
Barely.
But I feel it.
This dance we’re doing is dangerous. Tethering on the edge of something that can be amazing or burn us both to the ground.
She steps back, cheeks flushed. “Did you at least preheat the oven?”
“I’m not a monster,” I say, sliding trays onto the warming rack.
She watches me mix the dough with her arms folded. Her eyes go soft. Warmer than any oven in this place.
And for a heartbeat—just one—it feels like she might step closer. Might ask. Might want what I want. But then she blinks hard, shaking herself out of whatever moment just passed.
“I hate you,” she says, amusement lacing her words.
“You do not.”
Em mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “That’s the problem,” but she covers it by reaching for the stack of order forms again.
I let the moment slide. For both our sakes.
“Okay,” she says, voice back to business-mode. “I need to start work on the gingerbread men next. And the cranberry orange bars. And the sugar cookie sets for the Farmer’s Market—”
“Em,” I cut in, gently touching her elbow, “breathe.”
She does. A shaky inhale. A slow exhale.
“I’m so behind.”
“Then we’ll stay until we’re not.”
Her eyes flick up again—longer this time. Searching. Softening.
“You have your own life, Hayes.”
“You’re part of it.”
Her breath stutters. She drops her gaze to the counter.
“I mean it, Em. It’s not like I’ve got a hot date with Gideon or anything.”
That makes her laugh. A full-on belly laugh until tears are rolling down her face. “Okay, you win. I needed that. Those two are going to eat each other alive.”
“Probably,” I agree with a smile.
“Thanks for being here,” she whispers.
“No place I’d rather be.”
“You say that now but, don’t complain when you’re elbow-deep in gingerbread dough.”
“Never.”
“And don’t critique my frosting consistency.”
“I would never disrespect your frosting.”
The idea of licking frosting off of her infiltrates my mind. Shit. I need to get it together.
“And don’t flirt with the PTA moms when they come to pick up orders.”
“Why would I flirt with them?”
She shrugs a little too quickly. “They like you.”
“I like someone else.”
She freezes. Right there. Spatula in hand.
But I don’t push it further. Can’t. Not when she’s this fragile around the edges.
Instead, I slide the first cookie tray into the oven.
“There,” I say lightly, “batch one underway.”
She watches me with an expression I can’t completely read—something soft, tangled, hopeful, and scared all at once.
Then she swallows hard, clears her throat, and forces a smile.
“Okay, firefighter. Let me show you how to make some gingerbread men.”
So she does.
Side by side.
Shoulders brushing.
Hands bumping.
Flour on her cheek.
A streak of vanilla on my forearm.
An entire symphony of unsaid things crackling between us like wood in a fireplace.
If I’m not careful, every spark in this room is gonna set something ablaze.
And this time, I’m not sure I’ll put it out.
The timer chirps.
Emmy slips on her oven mitts and pulls the first sheet of chocolate chip cookies out. The warm scent of butter and chocolate fills the borrowed kitchen—but beneath it, threaded through like a memory—there’s something deeper. Cozier. Almost nostalgic.
She freezes.
“Hayes,” she whispers, staring at the tray. “Why do they smell like—”
She cuts herself off, blinking like she’s trying to place it.
I swallow hard and offer her my most innocent shrug. “Like cookies?”
But she’s not paying attention to me anymore.
She sets the tray on the cooling rack, leans in, closes her eyes, and inhales. Slow. Intentional. Almost reverent.
“You added something. I just know it.”
Emmy doesn’t even wait for them to cool before she picks up a cookie—too soon, too hot—and breaks it open. Steam curls out. She brings half to her lips, blows on it then tastes it.
“Oh my gosh.” Her voice cracks, soft and startled. “Hayes… I’ve been missing that in the recipe all these years.” She opens her eyes, glassy and shining. “This is it.”
The world around us disappears—no clattering pans, no industrial hum of the walk-in fridge, no town outside the fogged windows. Just us. Her. This unguarded moment.
Her lashes flutter.
“What did you do?” she asks, stunned, breathless.
“It tastes like—like Christmas at Pappy’s house.
Like those mornings he used to wake us up before dawn to make pancakes and he’d sneak me the first bite before everyone else came downstairs.
” She presses a hand to her chest, overwhelmed.
“I haven’t tasted that in… God. I don’t even know how long. ”
The look on her face nearly levels me. I didn’t expect this. I thought maybe she’d notice something different. I wasn’t prepared for this—for her remembering something so tender it hurts to watch.
I reach for the back of my neck, buying time. “Just followed the recipe,” I lie gently.
In my defense, I did follow a recipe, just not the one Emmy’s been using.
She shakes her head instantly. “No. No, I know my recipe inside and out. You changed something.”
A smile tugs at my mouth. “Maybe.”
“Hayes.” She steps closer, eyes locked on mine. Searching. Softening. “Tell me.”
I take the warm half of the cookie from her hand and lift it between us, careful not to brush her fingers even though I ache to. “Maple extract,” I say quietly. “Just a drop. The same brand Pappy used to keep in that old dented tin on the top shelf.”
She puts a hand on her forehead and gasps. “You remember that?”
“Of course I do,” I murmur, suddenly unable to look anywhere but at her. “We spent half our childhoods in your grandfather’s kitchen. He practically raised us on that stuff.”
Her eyes glisten, emotion trembling on her lashes. “I forget things,” she admits in a small voice. “Everyone says the sense of smell is the strongest memory trigger, but… I’d forgotten that smell. That taste. That feeling.”
She presses the cookie half to her chest like she wants to keep it there forever.
Then, softer than I’ve ever heard her: “Thank you.”
I don’t touch her. Not yet. But I swear the space between us hums like a live wire.
“For what?” I ask.
She finally meets my eyes, open and bare. “For giving me back something I didn’t even know I lost.”
That’s it. That’s the moment that breaks me and I lose all sense of self-control.
I reach out and pull Emmy to me, licking the cookie crumbs from her lips before kissing her like I’ve been dying to since prom night.
She freezes at first and my heart beats loudly, terrified that she’s going to push me away.
But then she softens. Em’s arms wrap around my neck, tugging me even closer to her and she kisses me back.
Her tongue dances with mine. The urge to pick her up and pin her against the wall roars inside of me but I won’t take her like this. Not here. For now, I’ll have to enjoy the passion in this kiss.
I don’t know how long we stay lip locked until Emmy’s phone pings, ending our perfect moment.
She jumps, startled, and immediately races for her phone that’s on the other side of the kitchen. Her gaze skitters everywhere but me—over the racks, the mixing bowls, the timer flashing 00:00—but the pink still dusting her cheeks tells me she’s replaying that kiss in her mind. Hell, so am I.
“We should get back to work. Those cookies aren’t going to bake themselves,” she finally says, flustered—gloriously, adorably flustered.
Emmy’s almost never flustered in a kitchen. This is her kingdom. Her safe place. Her rhythm. Seeing her this shaken, this undone, because of me…I feel it down in my soul.
I step closer. Not touching her. Not pushing anything. Just close enough that she can feel my heat, close enough that she knows the moment didn’t scare me off.
Her breath hitches.
“Em.” My voice is low, still rough from kissing her senseless. “We don’t have to pretend that didn’t happen.”
Her fingers tighten around her phone. “I—I know. I’m not—” She swallows. “I’m not pretending. But we do have work to finish,” she adds more quietly. “Evie is probably going to show up again later and interrogate us both until one of us breaks.”
I huff a laugh. “Evie would break me in under five minutes.”
“That’s generous.” She finally looks at me again, a shy smile tugging at her lips. “Three, tops.”
The tension shifts—still hot, still thick, but gentler now. Easier to breathe. I don’t want to push her into anything she’s not ready for. Not after all these years of wanting her and keeping my distance.
So I nod. “Okay. Back to work.”
She turns away to grab a clean sheet tray, but her hands tremble, just barely.
She’s rattled. I did that. And she kissed me back.
The knowledge thrums through me like wildfire.
She sets the tray down. “Can you start scooping the next batch? Just the regular size for the kids.”
“You got it.”
We work shoulder-to-shoulder, our arms brushing occasionally, each accidental touch sparking like a match head. She tries to focus—God, she tries—but every few minutes she sneaks a glance at my mouth.
I pretend not to notice.
The second tray goes into the oven. She exhales shakily, like she’s finally getting air again.
I watch her for a moment, the way her shoulders rise and fall, the soft pink still warming her cheeks, the ghost of my kiss still shining on her lips.
When I speak, my tone is low. Quiet. “Emmy.”
She stops moving but doesn’t turn. Doesn’t breathe.
“Tonight,” I say gently. “We talk. If you want to.”
Her grip tightens on the edge of the counter. Then—barely audible—“…okay.”
The scent of maple and chocolate lingers around us, sweet and warm and new and familiar all at once.
A turning point.
Something we can’t undo.
For the first time in years, I let myself feel a little hope.