Page 21

“Oh, thank you.”

I step away from Willa, needing but not wanting a respite from her closeness. Somehow, I’ve spent nearly half an hour now in this kitchen and missed the fully decorated cookies drying on a rack. There is a whole cookie zoo, each animal with tiny, expressive faces and the kind of detail I’ve never seen on anything edible. It’s shocking how perfect they are, given the chaos surrounding them and the decidedly messy nature of the one who made them. This kind of detail must take hours and a steady hand. Plus a kind of creative vision I don’t possess.

I’m unable to find words that adequately convey how impressed I am. Words that apparently come so easily to Bellamy.

“Remarkable,” he’s saying now, and I want to elbow him in the side to stop the effusive show of praise. Even though I agree. “You have a gift.”

“Thank you, Bellamy.”

Willa’s cheeks flush, and she fidgets, dragging a finger through a little pile of powdered sugar. Her smile is shy, and another flicker of irritation moves through me at Bellamy’s easy way with people.

Before he walked in, I had no problem speaking with Willa. I forgot to be self-conscious in the way I sometimes can be.

But now I’m far too aware of myself. Overthinking my words. Distracted by my hands and feet. Feeling stupid in this pink apron as Bellamy tugs at the ruffles.

I nudge him away and then untie the strings and pull it over my head.

“I need to get back to work.” I briefly consider putting the apron on Willa the same way she did me, but I can’t with Bellamy here. Instead, I fold it and set it on the edge of the counter.

“Before we go, might you have any samples? I’d die for a bite.” Bellamy smiles mischievously like a naughty schoolboy.

“You don’t need to give him anything,” I tell Willa, glaring at him. “It’s barely breakfast.”

“Well, you’re in luck,” Willa says. “I always have a few rejects and broken pieces.”

Bellamy grins. “As long as the old adage isn’t true about how you are what you eat.”

Willa laughs. “I make no promises. Here.” She holds out a tin she procured from somewhere behind her on the counter.

Bellamy eagerly takes a few pieces, and Willa steps toward me. “You can try them too, if you ask nicely.”

“I’ll take his,” Bellamy says, trying to block me from taking one. “He’s not really a cookies-in-the-morning kind of person. Or a cookies-at-all person. He likes a strict, no-fun meal plan that doesn’t include treats.”

“Give me that.”

I grab for the tin, my hand closing over Willa’s in the process. Though I could shift my grip, I don’t, leaving my fingers over hers as I take my time looking through the messy, misshapen pieces. I’ll be honest: it’s more about holding onto Willa than being selective about which broken piece I choose. Finally, I pick a larger piece covered in vivid pink icing.

“It was part of a hippo,” she says.

“What?”

When I glance up, once again, I find my gaze clashing with hers. She’s the first to look away, nodding down at the cookie in my hand.

“You looked like you were trying to figure out what it was supposed to be. It was a hippo, but I broke it.”

“It’s pink. Hippos aren’t pink.”

“Hippos are a grayish brown in real life, which doesn’t make a particularly cute cookie for a child’s birthday party.”

“People buy these for children? At how much per cookie?”

The flush in Willa’s cheeks is more of a red fire now, and I realize too late how rude my question sounds. I’m not saying what I mean, which is that her cookies are far too beautiful to waste on children who probably wouldn’t appreciate the difference between something hand-decorated and a factory-produced cookie in a package.

Willa turns away without answering, putting away the tin of broken cookies.

“I’m pretty sure your father paid outrageous prices to cater your birthday parties,” Bellamy says drily.

Then he grimaces and shoots me an apologetic look. Those parties were never really for me, and he knows it. I made it through my entire childhood without blowing out a candle. Somewhere, I’ve amassed a whole collection of unused birthday wishes.