I’m transferring the chocolate chip cookies from the cooling rack to the fancy wooden platter Payton set on the island when I hear the men’s voices.
They’ve been off making plans for the past hour, and I needed something to do to help me feel less tense. Plus, making cookies for a pregnant lady has got to earn me some friendship points.
The women are all so nice, asking me how I met Hans, wondering how long we’ve been dating.
It felt a little silly to admit that the closest thing to a date we’ve been on was dinner at my parents’. But they all thought that was sweet. So then I told them about bringing him food for the past year in hopes that he’d talk to me. Which led to them asking what sort of food I like to make, which led to my blog, which led to me offering to make something.
I slide the last cookie onto the pile and have to admit they look pretty good.
Since I didn’t want to try something new for a crowd, I went with a recipe I have memorized—and that Payton thankfully had ingredients for—my mom’s classic chocolate chip cookies. They’re pretty standard, except she always flattens the balls of dough on the pan, using her thumb to depress a circle in the middle, and then fills that with more chocolate chips.
If you like chocolate, they’re pretty great.
And only a few of them look a little too done, so I put those at the bottom of the pile.
I set the empty pan in the giant sink and take a second to just appreciate the kitchen. Everything is top of the line. Practically begging me to use it. They even have one of those fancy espresso machines that Payton used to make us a bunch of delicious decaf lattes.
I’m still standing on the far side of the island, opposite the stools where we sat before, when King enters the kitchen first.
“Smells good.” He rubs his stomach.
I wring my hands together in front of my stomach.
Even though I know things didn’t always turn out great, baking for Hans helped boost my confidence a lot.
But now I know he ate everything because of his infatuation with me. I could have given him a container of gravel and he probably would have eaten it.
I twist my fingers tighter together.
Maybe baking was a mistake. I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of Hans’s new friends.
The object of my own infatuation is the last to step into the room, and his eyes are already locked on mine.
And just like that, the tension building inside me lessens.
It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks of my cookies, Hans will always love me.
Something warm wraps around my heart.
Hans will always love me.
The last of my tension vanishes, replacing itself with something so light I feel like I could start floating.
It should hardly be a revelation. Hans loving me. He’s proven it so many times already in the limited interactions we’ve had.
And I love him too.
This big, crazy, domineering stalker of mine, he’s just that. Mine.
He’s still ten feet from the other side of the island, but he’s coming to me.
He’ll always come to me.
“Cassie made them,” Payton says in a cheery voice as Nero reaches for one of the cookies.
And that’s when Hans’s expression changes. And he throws one of his knives.
