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There was nothing cookie cutter about Theo. Tall, chiseled, and covered in tattoos and piercings, he looked exactly like every other bad boy I’d ever dated, but unlike my exes, the badness stopped at his spiky exterior. He’s thoughtful, kind, and unbelievably talented. In other words, a damn unicorn of a man.
We’d grown close when I took his art class last winter, months before Rowan moved back to town after her first marriage ended in spectacular fashion. I’d hinted to Theo I’d be down for more. I’d outright flirted. I’d done everything except straddle him, but I’ve been frozen in the friend zone for over a year.
The holidays were brutal. Cal only has his parents, and Theo only has Cal’s family, so of course, Mom insisted we all celebrate together. I suffered through Thanksgiving turkey dinner,Christmas pancake brunch, and New Year’s Eve apps where I received a one-arm bro hug from Theo at midnight. A lady has limits. Even me. So I’d set a secret New Year’s resolution: Stop lusting after Theo Makris.
Step one: Try not to think about him. (Clearly, that was going to take some work.)
Step two: Spend less time with him. I figured I could limit my Theo intake to a couple times a week, in the context where he belonged: teaching art classes.
“Do you think our price point is too low for those cookies?” Rowan asked, without turning from the dough she was kneading. “They seem time intensive.”
They were only time intensive with all the details I’d added, and right now the repetitive work was exactly what I wanted. “I doubt anyone would pay more than we’re already charging for sugar cookies, no matter how pretty they are.”
“They would for custom orders,” she said, turning to face me. She got that look in her eyes that meant she’d be researching the hell out of custom cookies later. I knew without researching they’d fit within her twenty-page business plan because who wouldn’t pay more for something uniquely theirs?
“Are there cookies?” my brother Chris asked, bounding into the kitchen and grabbing one of my perfectly iced snowflakes. My kid brother could demolish a dozen baked goods in ten minutes flat.
“Were you listening at the door like a creeper?” I slapped his hand when he reached for a second cookie on the rack and pointed to my pile of castoffs.
Chris shrugged. With his dark hair and massive height, he looked so much like our dad, I sometimes wondered if he’d gotten any genes from our mother. “I was in the dining room trying to calm down Mom.”
Rowan shot a worried glance at the dining room door. “Maybe I should make her some tea.”
“Better yet, pour some rum in a teacup,” I said. “There’s a bottle under the sink.”
Rowan scrunched her forehead. “What’s it doing under the sink?”
“You’d have to ask Mom,” I said, laying out another row of plain cookies. “The rest of the liquor is there too, but rum looks the most like tea.”
Chris laughed and grabbed the snowflake with edible glitter. “I wondered where she stashed it.”
Rowan put her hands on her hips in a perfect imitation of our mother. “Christopher Stevens, did Mom catch you drinking?”
My sixteen-year-old brother wasn’t a saint, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d never take alcohol from Mom. He’d been old enough to remember the punishment I got seven years ago when I snuck into the liquor cabinet my junior year of high school. It’d taken two toothbrushes, but the kitchen and bathrooms had never been so clean.
“If I wanted to drink, I’d just ask Aiden to buy me beer.”
Rowan fisted her hands at her sides.
I glared at Chris. “He said if, Rowan.” He got the message and nodded. “Mom hosted Bible study last week.”
“Ah,” Rowan said, and her shoulders visibly relaxed.
Chris pressed his lips together and did his best not to laugh. “Bible study” was what Mom and her friends called their weekly gatherings where they’d read a Psalm and spend the rest of the evening drinking wine, discussing romance novels, and watching reality TV before stumbling home. If my sister didn’t spend all her nights down the street at Cal’s house, she’d know the booze was under the sink because Mom was hiding it from herself as part of her Whole 30 challenge. It was still best to change the subject.
“If I must make a New Year’s resolution, I guess I could curse less, especially in public and in front of Mom,” I said. “Try to be more ladylike. I also second finding a space for the bakery.”
Chris looked around the cramped kitchen and nodded. Three ten-inch rounds cooled by the sink. The island held dozens of cupcakes waiting to be filled, then frosted. Rowan only had her small corner of counter space to make the rest of the desserts we needed before tomorrow’s deliveries. Not to mention, the health inspector had looked a little flustered during our initial inspection last fall. We cleaned the kitchen to exacting standards, but it was still a private home.
“Well, I might as well resolve to kick ass on the SATs,” Chris said. He sauntered to the cabinet under the sink, pushed aside the Drano, and grabbed a bottle of Captain Morgan.
Rowan took the bottle from him and poured a couple shots into a teacup then pushed through the swinging door to the dining room.
I slapped Chris’s hand with a flat-edge frosting knife when he reached for one of my identical iced cookies after he’d taken down all the castoffs. “Stop that.”
“Please, Pop,” he said, giving me those annoying puppy dog brown eyes.
I shoved an uniced cookie at him as Rowan returned with the teacup. She threw it back and swallowed.