“I may die from cookie over-exposure,” he admits, shaking his head. “I have no idea what I was thinking.”
“You always underestimate the appeal of your treats,” I say, walking over to his side of the worktable. I lean over and pick up a broken cookie, taking a bite. It melts in my mouth. “Holy crap, Dex, that’s delicious.”
Dexter watches me eat the cookie—his eyes glued to my mouth. I lick the crumbs from my lips, feeling the heat rise between us. It’s always like this—it’s always been like this. Give us two seconds alone and things go from PG cooking or baking to, well, any rating above, depending on the circumstances.
“I think you always underestimate the appeal you have on me and how I have very limited self-control.” He places the bowl on the table and reaches for me, pushing his hand behind my neck and pulling my mouth to his.
His kiss is wickedly sweet. Slow, to a painful extent. He licks my tongue, my lips, teasing and taunting. This is the different side of Dexter, the one that makes cute Valentine’s cookies and holds my hand in the hall at school. The one that no longer gets in fights or simmers just beneath the surface with a low boil of anger. This Dexter is fun. He begs me to skip school and drive into the desert, stand over waterfalls and taste the air. He’s a different person, one that doesn’t have jail time hanging over his head or a judge watching his every move.
This Dexter is even more dangerous than the other one, because that one had hard, fast rules. This one? He’s free. Exhilaratingly so, and I find myself wanting to get lost in that freedom more and more every day.
“You’re right,” he says as the chime on the door rings, alerting us to the fact we’re no longer alone. “Those are delicious.”
My knees wobble as he releases me and picks back up his bowl of frosting. I steady myself on the stainless-steel table, wondering if whoever walked in can hear my heart hammering as loud as I do. It’s not like they have to. The smirk on Dexter’s face tell the world what he’s just done and when I face George and Jake in the doorway, George frowns.
“What’s on your neck? Is that blood?”
I reach for the place that’s still warm from Dexter’s touch. Jake walks over an
d lifts my hair, sniffs my skin, then licks it.
I pull back, laughing. “What are you doing?”
“It’s food coloring,” Jake says, rolling his eyes at all three of us. “Way to leave a mark, Falco.”
Dexter just shrugs, that same smug grin on his face. It’s so nice to see him happy, I can’t even get mad. Jake heads to the rack and grabs three aprons, handing me the black one that’s smaller than the others.
“Where’s Charlie?” Dexter asks.
“With Mrs. Jones,” George says, grabbing a handful of overbaked cookies and shoving them in his mouth. “Still working on that database.”
Dex grimaces. “I guess I’ll give him a pass.”
“It’s better than having him in here whining about stuff,” Jake says. Charlie isn’t the most patient kitchen assistant.
“Truth,” George says.
“You guys be nice. That database is going to save a ton of time.” I say, taking a tray of cookies from Dex. “We all have unique skills.”
George snorts. “You sound like Sierra.” His eyes dart to Dexter after he says it, then curses under his breath for bringing her up.
Talking about his sister leaving in a lurch is still hard for Dex. A hint of sadness flickers in his eyes, but he shrugs and says to me, “He’s right, you do sound like Sierra.”
“Someone has to be the voice of reason around here,” I concede.
“Right now, I need everyone to stop talking and get ready to ice two hundred cookies.” He raises an eyebrow. “Each.”
There’s a collective groan, one that brings joy in my heart. There was a time, not that long ago, when we were split up and the twins were in danger. Those days are thankfully gone and I’m just glad they’re here, all of them, back in one place—one home.
2
George
Mr. Clarke, my balding, boring, algebra teacher, looks up from the note handed to him by the main office worker and says, “George, they want you up in the office.”
I glance at Charlie, who raises his eyebrow in question, and I shrug in return. For once in my life I’ve got no idea why I’m being called to the office. I can officially say I haven’t done anything that would get me in trouble.
At least, I don’t think I have.