by Shyla Colt
He shakes his head and looks up at the ceiling. “We were stuck in a hamster wheel of misery.”
“And you couldn’t talk to me about that like an adult because ...” I arch an eyebrow, refusing to give an inch. “It is no longer my job to cover for you. Clem can make her own mind up about you without me saying a word one way or another.” I spent years hiding my own pain and embarrassment because he missed yet another parent/teacher conference event. It was a near-daily conversation with Clem about how Daddy loved her, but he had to work to support her. Now I can call him out on his bullshit without fearing repercussions. He never laid a hand on me, but his tongue cut like an expertly wielded scalpel.
“You’re overreacting. Like usual.” A master wordsmith, he manipulated, gaslighted, and misplaced blame like a politician. Over time, I got burned out and gave up fighting to be heard or make leeway. He hadn’t intended to change, and I wanted a peaceful existence more than I wanted to be right. Eventually, we were two fighters, standing in opposite corners waiting for the bell to ring. For me, the divorce papers were the ding ding I didn’t know I needed to hear. I’m prepared to slog it out to regain my voice, dignity, and hold the line I’ve drawn in the sand between us.
“What would I have even said that you’d hear, huh?” He steps closer to loom over me in my black leather office chair.
“This isn’t working. Let’s fix it or walk away.” I hold my fingers up as I list options.
“Because that’s such an easy conversation to have?” He sneers.
“Seems like it would’ve been easier than entering into an adulterous relationship. But what do I know?” I give a fake laugh, and he growls. “We were best friends for a long time. I had your back even when it cost me to create a united front. How dare you disrespect me like this?” It feels good to let the words I’ve bitten back fly free. I ball my hands into fists to resist the urge to slap him.
“Everything I did or said disappointed you,” he whispers.
“What? I never said—”
“You didn’t have to. I could see it in your eyes. When Brittany came to the lot to buy a car and requested me, I was flattered. She was young, beautiful, and completely in awe of me. It’d been a long time since I felt appreciated.”
“So she stroked your ego, and you forgot all about everything else.”
“No.” He shakes his head and sighs. “It was more than that. I felt needed. I wanted more of that. It became an addiction that overruled anything else going on in my head.”
“You’re a selfish asshole.” I spit the words out at him like acid.
He hangs his head. “I know.”
I push away from the desk and turn to face him. Peering up, I hold his icy blue gaze. “I’m not doing the competition as a way to get back at you. I just want to make Clem happy, and yes, have her be proud of me. Parents seek approval too, you know?”
“For years, you bitched and moaned about how much you hated publicity.”
“And I still do. Clem, however, is worth the discomfort.”
Jackson’s face softens. “You don’t have to do this to upstage Brittany.”
I throw my head back and laugh. “Please. She’ll get bored and move onto the next thing soon enough. Are you even listening to me? The competition is Clem and I tackling another challenge together. Like we’ve always done.”
“Not this again,” he huffs. “I was working for us—”
“Except for when you weren’t. Since Brittany didn’t cheat alone.”
“I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.” He gestures toward me, flustered.
“I said what I said.” I meet his steady gaze without flinching.
He looks away. A small thrill rises up within me. “I don’t even know who you are anymore, Matilda.”
“You haven’t for a very long time. Are we done with this conversation now? I have work to finish before I can leave today.”
“She’s not going to hold back. I don’t want you to embarrass yourself on live television. Again.” And there’s the dig he always has to get in.
“Oh, I won’t be. Maybe remind your darling fiancée that everyone knows she was the other woman, and if anyone is looking bad right now ...” I trail off. He swears, and I smile. “Always lovely talking to you, Jackson. If there’s nothing else?”
“No.” He stalks away, but pauses at the door. “I miss the old Tilda.”
“I don’t.” And therein lay the main point of contention.
He leaves, and I exhale, slumping back into the office chair. One battle down. A zillion more to go.
ANDERS: Have you done your homework yet?
Matilda: What are we, in high school?
Anders: So that’s a no.
A giggle breaks free. I cover my mouth, horrified. No. I will not let this taskmaster charm me. When he wasn’t speaking lyrically about baking from the heart, he had me memorizing measurements and how oil and butter make the difference in the bake. He called it baking basics boot camp. I called it hell. We had an entire discussion on what a pinch meant. A pinch! I snicker, remembering his serious face. He had robust features, and his jawline did delicious things to my libido when it clenched. I wanted to be annoyed, but his big, brown eyes lit up when he got passionate.
The energy he gave off was infectious. I drank it up like a starved waif. Clearly, this blog was a true labor of love. It’s refreshing seeing someone go after their dream. If only it wasn’t in direct opposition to the lifestyle I wanted to live.
Matilda: You’re wrong. I did it.
Anders: Oh. What did you come up with?
He’d challenged me to find a cookie recipe I felt a personal connection to. It was a more challenging task than I imagined. Curling up beneath my soft unicorn blanket, I take another sip of my tea. The fire blazes merrily in front of me, crackling and popping in the background. Clem is sleeping, and this is the time I take for myself.
Matilda: Too much to text.
Anders: I’ll call.
My stomach does not flutter at the thought of this. When the phone vibrates, I count to three before I answer.
“Hey.” His rich tenor sends chills down my spine.
I close my eyes, imagining him. “Hey.”
“What was your pick?”
And it’s straight to business. Funny how you can want to strangle someone and listen to their deep voice because it does tingly things to your lady parts.
“I went to my mom’s and dug up an old box of family recipes. All the women have contributed to it through the years. It was strange feeling a connection to the women who’d come before me. They all had their own taste and ingredients they tended to use heavily.”
“That’s incredible. How far back did the recipes go?”
“Early nineteen hundred.” It feels good to share with someone who’s equally excited.
“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.”
“Good. Now tell me why you’re so crabby.”
“Everywhere I turn, people are either recognizing me, emailing me, or messaging me. I wasn’t prepared for that.”
“I’m going to tell you what you need to hear. It’s not going to stop anytime soon. The minute you appeared on Channel Nine news, you were placed on people’s radar. They want to know more about you. Eventually, that’ll die down.”
“But not while we’re filming.”
“No.”
“I can deal with a few more weeks of this.”
His lack of response sets of an alarm. I ignore it as we say goodnight and go our separate ways.
ANDERS
“Cookie King. Cookie Woman!” I wave at the people who shout out our nicknames as we enter Hill of Beans. The warm greeting has me feeling like we’ve been voted Prom King and Queen. It’s that energy that’s pushing our story out there faster than even I imagined. The Hill does intricate monthly themes, and with Valentine’s Day fast approaching, they were the ideal spot for a free photo op.
Buzz. Buzz. My phone dances happily in my back pocket.
“What is that?” Matilda asks as she drapes her heavy, wool coat over her arm.
Work Matilda is just as sexy as casual. Her black slacks accentuate her ass, and the white camisole shows a hint of the honey-colored skin of her collarbone underneath her matching sports coat. I can’t help but wonder if the flesh there is sensitive. Her wavy hair frames her oval-shaped face, and her dark, berry-colored lips remind me of a ripe, chocolate-dipped strawberry.
“Notifications.”
Her jaw drops. She squeezed me into her lunchtime, so the least I can do is buy her some caffeine and food.
“Holy crap.”
“Yeah.” I smile sheepishly. “My brother will be showing up soon to take shots for us. I figured we’d eat lunch now.”
“You don’t have to buy it for me.” She shakes her head.
I double down. “I insist, I interrupted your day.” We get into line behind a handful of other people.
“Did you bring it?”
“Yes.” She holds up her satchel.
“I’ll hold it.”
“Be my guest. The things weigh a ton.”
She hands over her bag, and our fingers brush. I feel the same heat that plagues me whenever we’re in close contact. Her eyes dilate, and I know the desire is mutual. Our gazes cling to each other like saran wrap to itself. Her pink tongue darts out to moisten her lips, and I follow the movement. She’s jostled, and I catch her, pulling her close to my chest.
“Sorry,” someone mumbles.
She tilts her head up and swallows. “Th-Thanks.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak when her curves are pressed against me. Her skin is warm beneath my palm. I move it down to the small of her back. My heart thuds in my ears as the blood rushes down.
“Are you two dating?” The question is a bucket of cold water.
“What?” we both ask.
Clicks go off. We step apart, and I miss the feel of her body immediately. She felt right there in my arms.
“No. We’re actually taking pictures for this week’s segment.”
“Oh, what are you filming?” a petite brunette asks with a smile.
“Graham Gems.”
“What are those?” she asks.
“You’ll have to tune in to find out.” I wink.
“I see what you did there.” The brunette wags her finger at me. “I’m Maureen, by the way.”
“Hi, Maureen, I’m Anders, and this is Matilda.”
Maureen turns her attention to my silent partner. “I really wanted to say thank you.”
“Me?” Matilda presses her hand to her chest.
“Yes.” Maureen nods. Her face lights up, and she begins to talk with her hands. “It takes courage to get on to social media after something like the fire. And everything else.” Her polite way of bringing up the not-so-private divorce. “We need more women like you out there, reminding us to live our best life.”
“Thank you for saying that,” Matilda says softly.
“It’s true. You inspired me to take the spin class I’d been too scared to take before. Life’s too short to worry about what anyone else will think or if you’ll be good at it. The experience is what matters. When you took that sugar cookie out, the joy on your face was felt around the net. Keep it up. Also, the chemistry between the two of you is off the charts. You might want to investigate that.” She winks.
“Vanilla soy latte for Maureen,” a barista yells.
“That’s me.” Maureen gives us a wave before walking away like she didn’t just put us both in an awkward position.
“That was interesting,” Matilda says, clearing her throat.
“Life with you around seems to be.”
“I could say the same about you, sir.” For once, it doesn’t sound like an insult.
“Do you know what you want for lunch?” I steer us toward neutral waters.
“Not yet.”
We busy ourselves with the business of choosing food, grabbing our order, and finding a table in the corner. Eating keeps us from having to talk, but my eyes refuse to obey me as I drink her in. Even the way she eats captivates me. Her eyes drift shut, and she hums her approval as she chews on the cheese-laden panini. What else would get her to make those noises? No. I shut the door on those thoughts and take a bite of my own sub. Focusing on chewing, I look away from the sweet-smelling goddess across from me. Notes of jasmine and sandalwood float across the table. Don’t make this situation more complicated than it needs to be, Rivera. My mind understands, but my heart doesn’t seem too interested in common sense.
Win walks in the door, and I nearly jump out of my seat to wave him down. He nods and walks up toward her.
“Finally, I get to meet the infamous Cookie Woman,” Win drawls.
Matilda glances up at him and holds her
hand in front of her mouth to finish her food. “Hi?”
“You’re even more beautiful in person than you are online,” Win says smoothly.
Her laughter is a bell tinkling, and I want it to be directed at my words. My teeth grind together.
“Oh, you’re good,” Matilda says, obviously delighted. Him she smiles at.
Win grins wolfishly. “Just honest.”
“I didn’t realize your brother would be so charming, Anders.”
“He’s not.” I frown.
“That gene must’ve skipped you.”
Win laughs. “You’d be the only one who thinks so.”
“It’s always nice to be the first at something, I suppose.”
I want to shove Win away from the table and block him from her view.
“Are we going to take the pictures or what? She has to get back to work.”
Matilda blinks up at me. “I have time.”
“No.” The words are harsher than I intended. “I know this is extra from what we agreed to originally. I’ll clean up, and you can head over to the Valentine’s Day area they have set up with the Gem pan.” I busy myself gathering our garbage, ignoring the startled look Win shoots me. I can feel Matilda’s annoyance like a physical presence. Every step I take forward with her is countered by two or more steps back.
MATILDA’S FRONT DOOR swings open. “I’m going to wring your not so scrawny neck.”
“Hi?”
“Have you seen this?” She slaps a piece of paper at my chest.
“Hands are a bit full here, Tilly.”
She pauses. “What did you call me?”
“Tilly?”
“Humph.”
I step inside, and she stands beside me, an angry fire ready to burn me up with her rage. After setting my things on the rug, I remove my coat and shoes before taking my cooking supplies into her kitchen. I put the bags on the kitchen counter and turn to her. “Okay.”
She slaps the paper in my hand.
“Are there more than cookies baking in the kitchen between the Cookie King and Cookie Queen in training? Sources say yes.” Photos of us embracing in the coffee shop follow in the article.
“Why did we take pictures there?”
“Because it’s cute.”
