Page 62 of Code Name: Atticus

“Speaking of Luke…”

I set the pan down. “Yeah?”

“I’m going to make cookies to take to him.”

“Okay. Uh…”

“What?” she asked.

“Can I have some?”

She smiled and shook her head. “Yes, Mason, you may have some.”

“Oh my God,” I groaned as I plated my own eggs then grabbed our toast.

“What was that about?”

“I don’t even want to say it out loud.”

She took a bite of eggs, then patted her lips with a napkin. “Either tell me, or you don’t get cookies.”

“You sound just like my mom. Then and now.”

Brenna rested against her chair. “Yeah, so, don’t ever saythatagain.”

I chuckled and leaned forward to kiss her. “Deal.”

The afternoon passed quickly.Brenna baked cookies—snickerdoodles, Luke’s favorite since they were kids—then decided they weren’t perfect and made a second batch. The kitchen filled with cinnamon and sugar while flour dusted every surface. I didn’t mind since the first set seemed perfect to me.

“You know he’d eat store-bought cookies and be happy, right?”

“That’s not the point.” She slid another tray into the oven. “When we were growing up, Mom always made these for special occasions. Luke requested them every birthday until he left for the academy.”

“And this is a special occasion?”

She glanced at me. “Isn’t it? My brother finding out about us?”

“When you put it that way.” I snagged a cookie from the cooling rack. Still warm, perfect blend of sweet and spice. “These are incredible.”

“Mom’s recipe. Though I add extra vanilla.”

“Rebel.”

While the cookies cooled, we did quick check-ins with the team, confirmations for the weekend, all the logistics that kept the investigation moving forward without consuming our entire day.

At five-thirty,we loaded into the BMW for the drive to Sonoma. Brenna had changed clothes three times before settling on a long-sleeved dress that she said was casual enough but didn’t look like she was trying too hard.

“Is this okay?” I’d asked, motioning to the khakis and blue button-down I’d chosen.

I changed to a blue polo when she said I looked too formal.

“Since when is looking formal bad?”

“Since we’re trying to seem relaxed and happy, not like we’re attending a deposition.”

The drive north took us through San Rafael and into wine country. Brenna fidgeted with the radio, the temperature controls, her phone, anything to keep her hands busy.

“You’re going to break the console,” I said, catching her fingers as she reached for the radio again and bringing them to my lips. “There’s nothing to be nervous about.”