Page 27 of Pucking Sweet

“Yeah, Mom, listen—” She sighs, giving me another long-suffering look. “Yeah, I know. You already told me that. No, I’m just saying you already told me—”

I set the pothos down on the only spare patch of counter I can find, over by the sink. Poppy hops off the ottoman, stepping back into the kitchen on bare feet. She comes up next to me and plucks a chocolate and marshmallow cookie off one of the trays. She hands it wordlessly to me and walks away.

She and her mom exchange a few more sentences as I take a bite of the cookie and groan. Oh god, it’s still warm. The chocolate is melty, and the marshmallow is gooey, and the cookie batter tastes like graham crackers. It’s a s’mores cookie, and I’m dead.

“Okay, well I gotta go. No, I have to—” She huffs. “Mom, my neighbor just came over. He needs to borrow something, so I gotta go. I’ll see you and Daddy for lunch next week, okay? Yep, I love you too. Byeeee.” She drops the phone from her ear with an exhausted sigh. “I amsosorry about that.”

“Not a problem,” I say, sucking the sticky marshmallow off my thumb.

“And if my mother ever asks, you came over here in desperate need to borrow something.”

I don’t love that my role in her life can be summarized down to “the neighbor,” but that’s what I’m here to try to fix. “We’ll say I was out of laundry soap.”

“Perfect.” She sets her phone down and picks up a creamy cable-knit sweater. “Ugh, you really saved me, you know?” She pulls it on over her head and lets it settle at her hips. It’s two sizes too large, hanging seductively off one shoulder. But at least it covers her perky breasts, hiding her firm nipples under that silky pink—

I swallow the rest of my cookie. I’m getting hard in her kitchen right now. I’m eating her cookies, and thinking about her breasts, and getting hard. I turn away quickly, using the sink as an excuse to wash my hands.

“If you hadn’t knocked when you did, I’d be on the phone with her for another hour at least,” she goes on behind me. “How did you like the cookie?” Her hand brushes my arm as she reaches around me, plucking another cookie off the tray. “It’s a new recipe. My sister-in-law sent it to me.”

She takes a bite of the cookie and moans. “Oh, my goodness. Okay, I know I’m biased,” she says through a full mouth, “but this isreallygood.” She catches the rest of her cookie before it crumbles, and looks up at me, those blue eyes holding an unspoken question.

I drop the dish towel down to the lip of the sink. “Oh. Yeah. No, they’re really good. They’re fucking amazing, Poppy. Best cookie I’ve ever tasted, honestly.”

Her smile lights up her whole face. “Do you like caramel?”

“I…”

She spins away before I can answer. “I was in the mood for salted caramel today,” she says over her shoulder. “So, I made some saucefrom scratch and added it to my trusty chocolate chip pretzel cookies. Tell me what you think.” She hands me another cookie.

I look down, noting the swirls of thick caramel mixed with the crunchy pretzel pieces and gobs of chocolate. She watches me take a bite. I’m ready to control my sound effects this time. “Fuck. This might be even better than the s’mores cookie,” I admit.

Her smile brightens again, and I add something else to my running list of facts about Poppy:lights up when praised.

Very useful fact to know.

I hide my smirk, finishing the cookie in two bites. “You made caramel from scratch today?”

“Just like Nana taught me,” she replies. “It’s really not that hard. There are only four ingredients. I can give you some if you want. I have a couple jars cooling in the fridge.”

I glance around again. “How did you have the time to do all this? Didn’t you work a full day today?”

She laughs and waves the question away, swaying around the kitchen bar to fetch her glass of rosé. “I bake when I’m stressed. It’s how I cope with this crazy thing we call life. That, and running.”

“What are you stressed about?”

She looks at me over her wine glass. “Oh, you know, this and that.”

Even as the question came out of me, I knew it was dumb. Whatdoesn’tshe have to be stressed about? She’s the head of public relations for a brand-new international sports team. She’s living in a new city, working with new people, and we’re a week out from the start of the season. I’m stressed, and I’m just playing the game. She’s one of the maestros orchestrating the show of it all. I’m like the backup dancer to her Beyoncé.

“Sorry, that was a stupid question,” I admit. “Of course you’re stressed. How could you not be?”

She smiles again, taking a sip of her wine. “You must be feeling it too. I heard you’ll be starting against Carolina. Congratulations. First Ray in history to skate on the ice.”

“Well, one of six,” I reply.

“First right-side defenseman.”

I grin. “That’s true.”