Looking at the calendar, I realized how quickly the holidays were approaching and that I hadn’t done anything to get into the spirit of the season yet. When I was younger, my grandmother used to have us come over and had her servants make Christmas cookies with us. Strange as it sounded, it was a good memory.

So I decided to make sugar cookies all by myself. I found a recipe online, preheated the oven, and started combining the ingredients. The recipe said to refrigerate the cookie dough, but I didn’t want to wait, and we’d never done that when I was small.

When the ingredients were all in and mixed, I rolled up some balls and put them on a cookie sheet. I wished that I’d had some cookie cutters to make shapes, but round was good enough. All that mattered was how they tasted. I put the cookies in the oven, set the timer, and waited impatiently for them to finish cooking.

Just before the timer rang, Tyler walked into the kitchen. His hair was adorably mussed and he smiled wide. My heart leaped at the sight of him. “Are those cookies I smell?”

“It is.”

Pigeon came in next, yawned, and then went for her food bowl. Tyler went to grab her some kibble when she sat in front of it and looked at him mournfully.

“Cookies aren’t exactly the breakfast of champions,” he called out from the pantry.

“It’s a breakfast for people in the mood for Christmas.”

“That’s hard to argue with.” He came out with Pigeon’s food, pouring it into the bowl for her. He then returned the bag to the pantry and closed the door.

“Does your family have any Christmas traditions?” I asked.

“Only if getting blackout drunk and blaming your children for being a burden counts as a tradition. It’s my mother’s favorite.”

The thought that anyone could treat Tyler that way made me sick. And unfortunately, I could relate. “My mom’s favorite is making a You Suck list that she checks twice so that she can spend Christmas dinner telling me all the ways I’ve failed as a daughter.”

The timer rang and I took out my cookies. They looked perfect. A nice, golden shade. It was hard to believe that I’d done it. I’d made cookies without burning them or setting an oven mitt on fire or some other terrible disaster.

“Hello, my name is Tyler Roth and I’m here from the IT department. I’ve been instructed to delete your cookies,” he said with an exaggerated drawl, using a spatula to pick up a cookie. He blew on it and then popped it in his mouth.

I giggled at his impersonation but fell silent at the expression on his face. “Is something wrong?”

He ran over to the sink and spit the cookie out. Was he trying to tease me? He grabbed a cup and poured himself a glass of water.

This had to be a joke. I got a cookie myself and had already put it into my mouth when he said, “No, wait!”

My eyes watered. This was the saltiest, grossest cookie known to mankind. I followed his actions and spit it out, too. Only I didn’t make it to the sink and it landed on the floor. Pigeon was there to investigate, but one sniff proved she was smarter than both of us as she ignored it and went back to her own food.

Tyler handed me his glass and I gulped down the rest of the water. I put the empty glass in the sink and grabbed my fallen cookie from the floor and threw it away. Then I washed my hands, like I could wash the stink of this mistake off me.

“How much salt did you put in those?”

“What the recipe said. Half a cup.” I pulled the recipe back up on my phone and realized that I had somehow confused the salt with the measurement for the powdered sugar just above it. “Oh. It was supposed to be half a teaspoon of salt. I’m sorry. I already knew I was a terrible cook. I didn’t know I was bad at baking, too.” Had I not learned my lesson with the chocolate macaroni and cheese?

“Didn’t you taste the dough?”

“I may not know a lot of kitchen stuff, but I do know you don’t eat batter with raw eggs. That’s how you get salmonella.” Or at least that was the excuse one of Grandma’s cooks had given us as kids to keep us out of the cookie dough.

“So basically, if I didn’t feed you, you’d starve.”

“Something like that,” I agreed.

He went over to the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of eggs. “How do you like your eggs prepared?”

“By somebody other than me.”

“Excellent choice, as that’s what we’re serving here today.” He got out a frying pan and put some olive oil in it. I loved watching him do physical things, the way the muscles tightened and relaxed across his shoulders and back, his arms flexing as he reached for the eggs and the spatula.

“You know, I feel bad that you are always feeding me,” I told him. That he was spending his money on groceries that he would then use to cook for me. Since he’d told me about his mom I’d become uncomfortably aware that I was relying on him too heavily. It made me even more determined to get my finances straightened out so that I could start paying him rent.

“We have a bartering system in place here. You get what you want and I get what I want.”

That was dangerous territory because what I wanted when it came to him did not involve scrubbing toilets or sweeping floors. “You should let me chip in on, like, apartment groceries. I don’t want to be someone else you have to take care of.”

“Maybe I don’t mind taking care of you.”

My pulse quickened, but his back was to me, and I couldn’t see his face. His voice had a weird tone to it and I didn’t know what to make of it.

It felt important, though. But I was too afraid to make a fool of myself by asking him what he meant.

He made the eggs scrambled and we chatted while we sat at the kitchen island and ate. I was in the middle of explaining why my only experiences with baking Christmas cookies didn’t involve me doing any of the creating or baking when he interrupted me, his eyes bright and his voice giddy.

“You know what we should do today? We should go get a Christmas tree. There’s a lot a few blocks over selling them for charity. What do you think?”

I thought it sounded fun and I told him so.

“Then let’s go get ready!” He sounded so excited, like a little kid. It made me laugh.

We put our plates in the sink and retreated to our separate bedrooms. My phone buzzed as I pulled off my yoga pants.

I rolled my eyes when I saw who it was from. Did Brad somehow just know that I was having fun with a man who was not him?

 

I wanted to text him back and ask if never ever worked for him.

Wanting to get the Big Brad Wolf out of my head, I put on some music and stuck my earbuds in. I danced around the room for a couple of minutes to one of my favorite songs before I took off the rest of my clothes, put on a robe, and headed for the bathroom.

I was singing along when I opened the bathroom door and spotted Tyler . . . getting out of my shower.

For a moment all I could do was gawk, taking in his naked, glistening self.

Then I realized what I was doing. I yanked out my earbuds. “Sorry! I’m so sorry!” I quickly closed the door and started back for my bedroom when the bathroom door swung open.

“Madison! Wait!”

I turned around slowly and tried to keep my gaze at eye level.

“I’m the one who’s sorry. I forgot to tell you the drain in my shower’s not working so I have to use yours for a couple of days. The super is sending a plumber on Monday to fix it.”