“It’s a good thing that people are interested in our mission.”
“Maybe for you.”
“I’ll make your comeback even more epic.”
She arches her eyebrow. “Or my failure that much more painful.”
“That’s not going to happen on my watch.” I shake my head.
“I believe that. It’s the only reason I’m letting you in right now.” She steps back, and I hurry inside before she can change her mind.
“I did lay out everything in our contract.”
“No. I wasn’t prepared to be the poster girl for crappy cookies.” Waving the shirt at me, she rolls her eyes. “Cookie Queen in Training?”
“The people love a catchy phrase. Who am I to deny them?” I shrug.
“I am guessing you want me to wear this?”
Yes, for my sanity. “If you don’t mind. I have my own, so you won’t be alone.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“I’m Anders Rivera, by the way.” I hold my hand out.
“Matilda Lawson. We went to the same high school.” Her hand is soft, and her handshake is firm.
“Yes, we did. I was a couple years ahead of you. It’s nice to see you again.”
“The jury is still out for me.” She narrows her eyes.
I grimace. “Tough crowd.”
“The proof will be in the pudding ... or cookie as it were.”
“Whoa. You don’t start out the gate creating masterpieces.”
“Please, break it down for me.” Her lips twitch up into a small smile.
I’ll take her amusement over her annoyance. “People think baking is simply measuring and timing, but they’re wrong. A real baker does it with their heart and soul. It’s a gut feeling. Whatever you put in will come through. It flavors your creations.”
“I’m listening.”
“When you’re blocking everything else out and really getting into making things, it’s not only fun, it can be soothing and healing. I learned to bake from my abuelita. She taught me all the recipes that had been passed down in our family. This is why I want to see where your mind and heart are. Then we’ll get you in the right mindset.”
“I don’t have any memories like that. I mean, my mother taught me how to cook. We did a lot of making meals together. Still do occasionally.” Her mood brightens.
I’m on the right path.
“But not baking?” I ask.
“No. I mean brownies and cupcakes, but they were from a box.”
“It still counts,” I assure her. “How do you feel when you bake?”
“I ... don’t?” She looks at me with inquisitive eyes.
“We’ll have to fix that. I have some things I’d like to bring in if you don’t mind.” This is her home, and I want her to know; ultimately, she is still in charge.