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“So, Leo and Liz are done? Like permanently?” Hugo asked Jazz as he rolled out a sheet of dough and handed it off to the girl next to him. “Remember how to use the cookie cutter, right? Straight rows.”

Hugo had introduced her as Erica, another resident of the group home.

She, too, was a person with Down syndrome, but she seemed to struggle more than Hugo.

Her eyes focused on the bone-shaped cutter, and she looked uncomprehendingly at the dough before realizing her task.

Then she started carefully pressing the tool into the dough in vertical columns.

“That’s it. That’s perfect. Good job, Erica.” Hugo’s praise made the girl grin, and she concentrated harder on making the rows as straight as possible. It was slow going, but no one criticized or hurried her.

Jazz took a couple hours away from the coffee shop during the afternoon slowdown to spend a few minutes with her brother and find some sanity.

There was something calming about being in his presence and in his kitchen.

The simple, methodical, and repetitive baking of the dog treats was soothing to her, and she found order in his world rather than the chaotic mess of her own.

One resident mixed the bowls of dough using four ingredients.

The measuring cups were color coded so they didn’t get mixed up: red for the flour, green for the peanut butter, blue for the applesauce, and yellow for the bone broth.

The man poured and stirred, then handed off the mixture to the head supervisor, who used the KitchenAid standing mixer.

Bowl after bowl lined up for Hugo to roll out and guide Erica through the cutting process.

The next person poked holes in each treat before the second supervisor put them in the big ovens to bake.

“Yes, Leo and Liz are done. I don’t think they’ll ever get back together,” she answered Hugo’s question as he lifted the spare dough from the cut cookies and mashed it into the next pile to roll out.

“They don’t love each other, so it’s good that they aren’t together anymore.” Hugo’s round face didn’t show any emotion one way or another.

“I guess you’re right,” she commented, then fell silent as the mixer started up. Her body hummed in time with the laboring motor, and she couldn’t help but replay last night’s events.

Wolf had stayed with her all night, spooning her body and keeping her close. This morning, he woke her much like he’d done the last time he slept in her bed.

“You sore, baby?”

She squirmed as his mouth tugged on one nipple. “I… a little… I… maybe?”

His chuckle tickled against the skin of her abdomen. “I can wait. Besides, I need to get more rubbers. I used up what I had last night.” He slid lower. “But just because I’m gonna take a break doesn’t mean you have to.”

“Yo, sis? What are you thinking about?”

Jazz jolted back to the present and regarded her brother with a shaky smile. “Nothing you need to know about.”

“Was it the motorcycle guy?”

She coughed to cover her surprise. “Why would you think that?”

“’Cause he’s cool, and he likes you.” Hugo grinned and handed another tray of rolled dough to Erica. “He wants to be your boyfriend.”

“How do you know?”

“Duh,” he intoned. “He didn’t let Mom or Liz say bad stuff about you. That means he likes you.” He paused and looked up at his favorite sister. “Don’t you like him?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

“Then you should be his girlfriend.”

Jazz wished like hell she could view everything through her brother’s eyes. Simple and straightforward. If A equals B and B equals C, then A equals C.

Could it be that easy?

Her phone buzzed, and she saw a new text from the subject of her conversation with Hugo.

Wolf: The fridge is empty. I’m gonna grab some groceries and cook dinner before work. Grabbed your spare key from the rack. Hope you don’t mind. How do you feel about lasagna?

She ignored the invasion of her space and concentrated on his other words. He was getting groceries. He was getting groceries!

Jazz: I like lasagna.

Wolf: What’s your favorite coffee in the morning? I noticed you don’t have any here.

Jazz: I don’t really like coffee. I’m more of a tea person.

Wolf: Your shitting me. You make fancy coffee drinks all day and don’t like it yourself?

Jazz: You’re. I drink coffee sometimes, but I like hot tea better.

Wolf: You’re something else, baby. I’ll get some fancy teas, then. See you at the house.

“You’re doing that face again,” Hugo interrupted.

“That was… um… Wolf. The biker. He’s getting groceries and making lasagna for dinner.”

Her brother didn’t bother to hide his I-told-you-so look. “See? Boyfriend. You’re so weird.”