Page 62 of The Way I Hate Him
Abel:Fresher than the eighty-year-old shriveled string cheese I saw today.
Hayes:Jesus fuck, man.
Abel:Was that a wet blanket for you? Because I have more where that came from.
Hayes:Keep it as ammunition for now. You might have to pull out your arsenal on me.
Abel:Locked and loaded.
Knock. Knock.
I glance up at my door as if I can see through it, and I say, “Yeah?”
The door opens, and Hattie pokes her head in. “Uh, I want to eat a cookie. Now I know you made them, so I figured I’d give you the right to eat one with me before I started munching away. Consider this a courtesy.”
“Are you inviting me to have a cookie with you?”
“Never,” she says. “I’m telling you I’m eating a cookie whether you like it or not. Feel free to have one at the same time.” And then she takes off, letting the door shut on its own.
I stare down at my phone and the texts from Abel telling me to stay away, but even though my eyes scan over his words, my body stands. With one toss of the phone to the empty couch, I forget everything he said and head out to the kitchen, where her music is playing on her phone again. This time, it’s a cover ofDon’t Stop Believin’.
She snags a cookie from the cooling racks, and when she turns to find me approaching, I see a slight smirk pass over her lips before she hoists herself up onto the counter.
I grab a cookie as well and lean against the counter. Her eyes land on mine, and then oddly, together, we take a bite. The moment the sugary goodness hits my tongue, flavors of cherry and almond popping off my taste buds, I know this has instantly become my new favorite cookie.
“Holy shit,” I say. “These are good.”
She checks out the cookie in her hand. “You know, I’d say you did a good job. I’m impressed.”
“I’m impressed with myself.” I take another bite. “How many of these did you say I could have?”
She eyes me. “Five, so pace yourself. Maggie is going to want at least two dozen. That’s how crazy she is about them.”
“Five won’t be enough.”
“Too bad, that was the deal.” She shrugs.
“We never made a deal about the number. And technically, you made these in my kitchen. Therefore, they belong to me.”
“Uh, wait a goddamn second,” she says, straightening up. “We might have made them in your kitchen, but I was the one who bought the ingredients. Therefore, a percentage of them belong to me.”
“Without my kitchen, there would be no cookies.”
She levels with me. “Without my ingredients, there definitely wouldn’t even be an inkling of cookies.”
“Then we split them, half and half . . .” I pause as a set of familiar chords plays through her phone speaker. And then . . . a smirk lifts my lips as she looks at me confused. It takes her all of five seconds to realize why I’m smirking before she leaps off the counter and grabs her phone, turning off the music.
“It’s not what you think,” she says, phone in one hand, cookie in the other.
I move past the island and slowly walk up to her, feeling cocky as shit. “Not what I think it is? Because it sure as shit seems like your phone was just playing one of my songs. Why would it do that unless you actually listen to my music?”
“It was playing music from the seventies,” she says.
“Funny, because my songs aren’t from the seventies.” I step right in front of her and shove the rest of my cookie in my mouth. I reach for her phone, but she pulls her arm away.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I want to see your playlists.”
