Chapter 2 #2
I think that’s the only issue, but just to be safe, I pop the hood and take a look at the engine and surrounding parts.
Nothing seems broken, loose, or misplaced, so I close it and start the van again.
As an extra precaution, I get out the OBD2 scanner—a tool to help review error codes and diagnose issues—and everything comes back fine, just as I suspected.
I take it for a lap in the parking lot to see if the check engine light comes back on, but it never does.
Silly man.
I park his van back in the front and make my way inside. Saint stands as I walk in, like he’s been waiting for me.
Duh. You were fixing his van.
“Good news. Your gas cap wasn’t tightened properly, so that’s what caused the check engine light. I checked everything else just in case, but I couldn’t find anything, and when I took it around the parking lot, the light went off.”
“Fuck, that was stupid of me. Thank goodness it wasn’t anything worse, I was worried I’d have to stay here all day.” He laughs awkwardly, but it dies off like he had to force it. “What do I owe you?”
“I’m not making you pay me for tightening your gas cap. Just make sure you’re hearing the click every time so this doesn’t happen again, okay?”
Saint grumbles something I can’t understand before he clears his throat. “Would you accept payment in the form of cookies instead?”
My mouth waters thinking about tasting one, but the cautious part of me is suspicious. What’s his game? Are they drugged? Is this some kind of scheme to kidnap me and keep me hostage in his basement?
I nearly snort at the thought. There’s no way someone would kidnap me.
“I don’t think—”
“Cookies? Hell yes. Mikey, you’re not going to say no to cookies, are you? We never get sweet treats unless Merv leaves out day-old donuts.” I jump at Patrick’s eager tone. I forgot he was here.
Saint’s lips twitch like he wants to smile, and I find myself wondering what a full-on smile would look like. I’m sure it’s devastating. The kind of smile that would make me question my single status.
“Calm yourself, Patrick. Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to take stuff from strangers? What if it’s drugged?”
“Mik-eey.”
“I swear on my mom’s grave I’d never give someone laced sweets without their consent. Besides, these cookies are a new recipe, so you’re actually doing me a favor by testing them before I put them out to the public.”
“See? He’s a baker! We can trust him,” Patrick argues.
I guess my assumption was right and that’s why his van smells so good.
“We would love some cookies. Thank you,” I say, and Saint’s lips stretch into the full smile I was wondering about.
He has a slight dimple on one side of his cheek, and his eyes crinkle in the corners as he flashes me his pearly white teeth. It’s breathtaking.
Panties incinerated.
“I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.” Saint rushes out the front door, and it reminds me of an eager child on Christmas. Who knew someone could be so excited about cookies?
Patrick whistles to grab my attention. “Just the gas cap, huh?”
“Yep. Simple fix.”
“Interesting. And now he’s giving you cookies.”
“He’s giving us cookies. Cookies you were practically begging for.” I point a finger at him, and he holds his hands up in surrender, a cheeky grin on his face.
“Well, we’re doing him a favor, remember? But I’m sure there are other favors he’d want from you.”
“Patrick!”
“What? I’m just saying.”
Before I can scold Patrick about his remark, Saint walks in the front door, carrying a container. He pops the lid off to reveal perfectly circular, golden-brown cookies, offering it to Patrick who promptly takes one and shoves half of it into his mouth. He swallows and gives Saint a thumbs up.
I grab one next, taking a normal sized bite, chewing slowly to savor it.
As the flavors burst across my tongue, my eyes flutter closed, and a soft moan of appreciation slips out.
This isn’t a standard, run-of-the-mill chocolate chip cookie.
There’s a hint of something… more. The cookie is perfectly crispy around the edges and chewy in the middle, and there’s a slight crunch of some type of nut. Pecans, I think.
“Wow,” I mumble, taking another bite. “This is…”
“Fucking delicious,” Patrick finishes for me.
Saint’s eyes are glued firmly to my mouth, and I swipe at my lips with my fingers to make sure there are no chocolate smudges.
“Why are they so good?” I ask after taking the final bite. God, I want another one. That was one of the most delicious things I’ve ever tasted.
“Bourbon, brown butter, pecans, and a pinch of cinnamon. I like to add a little cornstarch to my dough to keep the cookies soft,” Saint explains, still staring at my mouth. He blinks twice then offers me the container. “You can have the rest.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t—”
“Please, take them. I have so many, and they’ll go to waste since I can’t sell them yet.”
I take the container from him. “Thank you, Saint.”
“Yeah, thanks, man.” Patrick reaches across me and grabs three more cookies.
“Thank you for looking at my van. Sorry again for taking up so much of your time for something so stupid.”
“It’s not a problem, truly. Hopefully we won’t see each other again soon, though,” I tease.
He barks out another forced laugh. “Yeah… Well, I’ll see you around, Mikey.” He heads towards the front door but turns and adds, “You, too, Patrick.”
“Bye! Thanks for the cookies.”
With a final nod, he leaves. My eyes follow his movements as he gets into his van and drives down the street.
I finally move when the bumper is no longer visible, setting the cookies on the reception desk.
Patrick takes a few more, practically inhaling them.
I want to scold him for not savoring them and appreciating the flavors.
“Weird guy, but nice. Good baker. I think he has a thing for you.”
“Yeah… wait, what? He does not have a thing for me.”
“Who’s got a thing for Mikey? A customer? Ya said yes to a date, right?” Merv’s gruff voice barks, and the shop door slams open. I swear he has better hearing than me, even though he’s almost fifty years my senior. “Oooo, cookies. Mikey, you didn’t bake them, right?”
“No, Merv. They’re from a customer.” I burn one birthday cake and he won’t let me live it down. “One who does not have a thing for me.”
He takes a bite of his cookie, inspecting it like he’s the judge on a baking show before he gives a final nod of approval. “Well, that customer’s welcome back anytime if they bring in stuff like this. Maybe we can convince them to make a pineapple upside down cake next.”
I want to say we won’t see him ever again, but for some reason the words won’t come out. They feel like a lie.
This wasn’t the last time I’m going to see Saint Valentine, and I don’t know how to feel about it.