Tough Cookies (New Year New Me 1)

“I’m sure the recipes reflected what was available or easy to gather. My abuelita told us her family utilized the eggs they gathered and things they grew in the garden.” His voice takes on a reverent tone when he talks about his grandmother. It’s sweet. He clears his throat. “I have my computer open. Let’s talk about what you picked.”

“Graham Gems.”

“Huh. I’ve never heard of them.”

“They were popular in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. My ancestor, Helen, swore by them. When I found out my mom had the Gem pan Helen used, it was the obvious choice.”

“Gem pan.” I hear his fingers flying over the keyboard. “Oh, man, this thing looks awesome. Can you read me the ingredients?”

As I rattle them off, I feel my excitement rise. Baking with Anders feels like an adventure. He wants to create a new cookie for the bake sale contest, and I’m starting to believe we might be able to pull the win off.

“The viewers are going to enjoy a blast from the past.”

Is everything I say fodder for his show? It’s a dangerously familiar place to be in. It makes me itchy and uncomfortable.

&n

bsp; “We’ll take a few photos of the pan and give a quick rundown. I’ll send you a script, so you don’t have to worry about putting an explanation together.”

“Script? I didn’t agree to act.”

“It’s stating facts, not performing a scene.”

I flop my head back against the couch cushion. “Isn’t filming in my home enough?”

“It’s a puzzle. All the pieces have to fit together.” The absent-minded tone frustrates me.

“Is that all you needed?” I ask, ready to disconnect and return to my peaceful evening. Alone.

“No. I wanted to see what your schedule looks like this week before we meet up.”

“Why?”

“For promo photos for this week’s segment.”

“You know I hate this stuff,” I mutter.

“And yet you agreed to it.” He loves to use that sentence.

“I’m starting to hate that word.”

“Adhere? Comply? Observe?” His silken purr makes me think of Severus Snape.

My nipples tighten, and my panties flood. It’s a shame he can work my hormones and my nerves at the same time.

“I know what it means, smartass.”

He chuckles. “I thought you’d appreciate synonyms.”

“You thought wrong.”

“You’re a prickly pear today. I wouldn’t guess you were the same woman who successfully baked a sugar cookie with me mere days ago.”

Who talks like that? Mere? I clamp my mouth shut. There’s no comeback for facts. He’s doing his part, and it’s turning my life upside down. People are thirsty for any information they can get on the Cookie King, and by extension me. Others are invested in the journey. They want to see me triumph—or fail, it depends on the commenter. I try not to look at social media much these days, but others keep bringing it to my attention.

Even my co-workers have gotten into it, offering themselves up as guinea pigs for my baking. I humored them, promising muffins sometime this month. The truth is, I’m still scared to bake on my own.

“Point taken.”