16. Meg - Thumbprints

Chapter sixteen

Meg - Thumbprints

I want to get to know Drew better, but I know we need to be away from distractions to do it. I consider asking him to leave his phone in his room, seeing that it's a rather big distraction. Every time it goes off and he reads a notification, his demeanor changes for the worse. Not drastically, but just enough to take away from whatever we're doing.

It feels like it takes more and more to bring him back to me and away from wherever his mind has gone after he takes business calls. But I don't feel comfortable asking him to do that yet. Maybe I'll get there when I know him better.

After an early lunch, I make sure to check with the inn's cook, who everyone simply calls Chef, if it's okay to use his kitchen to bake, and if he has the ingredients I needed.

Normally, he's a really great guy who just dislikes change and is protective of his kitchen. But when new kitchen employees are hired, he gives the same scary speech to them about how no one tells him to do things differently. It's his way or the highway, and if that's a problem, they can leave.

Owners would normally have something to say about this, but my grandfather knows what a fantastic chef he is, so even he doesn't argue with Chef. Besides, he is also my friend Thomas whom I've known for years.

So, it's not quite so scary for me to ask him to share his domain. After a few minutes of assuring him that his kitchen will be in the same state he left it in, he agrees. I'm glad I made sure to mention that I'm a huge believer in the ‘clean as you go' school of thought when making anything.

By the time Drew and I make it to the kitchen after my last dog walk on the beach, I'm happily surprised to feel the frigid kitchen air and see the needed ingredients accompanied by the measuring cups, bowls, and spoons I need for cookies. I make a mental note to set a few cookies aside for Thomas to thank him.

"Is this what you meant by doing something different?" Drew asks, eyeing the ingredients. "I have to tell you. I've never made cookies in the middle of May."

"That's why it's so cold in here," I say, rubbing the warmth back into my arms. "Chef likes to cook in a kitchen that's as cold as possible. He says people get too cranky when they work in the heat too long."

"Smart man." Drew nods.

I want to get to know Drew better without him overthinking and filtering every answer he gives me. What better distraction than baking something delicious?

"Okay, when was the last time you baked something?" I ask.

He pauses for a moment. "I can't remember," he admits.

"Seriously?" I ask, and he shrugs.

"If I eat something, someone else usually makes it for me. In New York, I basically live at the office so cooking isn't an everyday thing," he admits. "I'm sure that sounds ridiculous."

"No, no it doesn't," I assure him. "That's why people like having take-out. All they have to do is enjoy it and it saves them time during the day."

"I suppose," he nods.

"Well, something you should know about making food yourself is that it always tastes better."

"Duly noted," he smiles and gives a mini salute. "So, what are we making today?"

"Thumbprint cookies," I say proudly, as I tie my apron and wash my hands. "They were my favorite when I was a kid." As Drew washes his hands, I tell him how the cookies got their name. Before you put the cookies in the oven, you gently press your thumb in the middle of them to make a small dip where whatever flavor of jelly can go. Once they've cooled, you can then add a drizzle of icing which just adds to the yummy flavor.

"I like them because they're not too sweet," I explain, as we start portioning out butter, flour, sugar—the usual suspects.

"Okay, I know it's been a while since I've made them but the last time I checked, cookies are supposed to be sweet." His words are thick with suspicion as he eyes the oatmeal among our ingredients.

"They're not plain like oatmeal cookies, I promise. I didn't say they weren't sweet," I correct him. "I just said they're the right kind of sweet."

"And what would that be?"

"The kind where you feel like you could eat the whole tray of cookies and not get sick of the taste," I say, as I start portioning the flour.

"Ah, gotcha." He nods as I hand him a wooden spoon, but he still looks at me like he's about to start laughing.

"What?" I ask, as he steps closer to me. He raises his hand to my face and gently brushes his thumb across my cheek. "You had a spot of flour on your cheek," he whispers.

His touch lingers on my skin for a moment longer than one would expect, but I don't move away. I search his gaze as he locks eyes with mine before he snaps out of the reverie and turns his attention back toward the mixing bowl.

"So, what's next?" he asks, giving me a shy smile.

"You're going to be the muscle," I say, as I measure out the rolled oats.

"How do you mean?" he asks as he carefully stirs.

"It gets tougher to stir the more oats you put in," I say, doing just that. "I'll just add in a little at a time but when I make these myself, I feel like my arm is going to fall off."

"It's like you have to earn the cookies," he chuckles, and I can't help but agree.

"But like I said, they'll taste better the more effort you put in." I slowly begin adding the oats. Suddenly, I'm very aware of the closeness of our bodies.

I giggle when I see him struggling to stir the oats that I keep adding in. He gives me a look like he thought I was joking before, but he's determined not to be outdone by a heavy oat cookie batter. I add the last of the oats, then start cleaning up and putting ingredients away as he combines the last of the dough.

I feel his eyes on me as I travel around the room putting things back where they belong. Not just once, but twice, I catch Drew's eyes looking my body up and down before they dart back to the dough he's mixing.

The first time, I assumed it was a fluke. The second time, I decide it's no coincidence.

By the time both of us are done, all we have out is the cookie batter, baking sheets, and three jars of jam accompanied by the icing ingredients.

"That was fast," he says, looking around the now clean space as if scattered baking ingredients were never there.

"I like to clean as I go. Then I'm not left with a massive mess at the end," I say, as I load the last of the measuring cups into the dishwasher. "Plus, it's not my kitchen, so I want to make sure it's just as clean as when we started."

"That's very well-mannered of you." He smiles as I show him how to make the right size cookie.

"Trust me," I continue, "you don't want to be on the wrong side of Chef's wrath."

"Thankfully, these cookies don't really spread out too far on the pan, so we can put more of them on the sheets," I add, as we start making the balls of dough.

When I bake on my own, I find it easy to get lost in a kind of groove, a flow, where I'm not paying attention to the time or how long I'm taking to work. I bake to get out of my own head. I like using my hands because, in a way, it lets me be productive and feel like I'm accomplishing something good that doesn't involve my normal work. It's usually something just for me but getting the chance to share it with someone else definitely feels even better.

I somehow still manage to get lost in the process of scooping, rolling, and placing the cookies onto the sheet, then repeating. However, I quickly snap out of that when Drew's hand touches mine as we both reach for the bowl. We both pull our hands away for a moment, and my stomach goes fluttery and weird. He lets me take my next scoop first, before jumping back in himself. I try to keep my gaze focused on my hands, but my mind spins at a million miles a minute.

Why do I get so weird with him sometimes? He's just a man. No, he's a guest. And yes, he's handsome and I can like how he looks, but I need to think about what happens once his stay is done. He's going back to New York and I'm staying here. I hate long-distance relationships, so it can't go anywhere. Let it go. I tell myself, as we finish shaping the last of the dough.

But I really don't want to.

"Okay," I say, as I fill the bowl with hot water. "Now is the fun part," I add, as I tell him how to make the right thumbprint.

"Do I press all the way down?" he asks, before he presses his thumb into the first cookie.

"Nope, just enough to make a crater for the jam," I demonstrate. "We'll add the jam and icing once they're done baking."

"Gotcha," he says, as he starts adding his thumbprints.

I watch with interest as I notice his slow seriousness with his attention to the cookies. He's careful and takes his time to make sure the cookies still hold their shape, despite the pressure of his hand. He catches me watching him and gives me a quick smile before returning to his work.

I decide to start making the icing. By the time I have the mix ready, the cookies are set to go in the oven.

"Twelve minutes," I say, as he shuts the oven door.

"Okay," he says, as he sets the timer on the oven. "I would ask if I could offer any help but you've handled all of the clean-up."

"No worries," I wave. "What's your favorite jam flavor?" I ask, nodding to the jars on the counter.

"I'm partial to blackberry myself. And you?" he asks, untying his apron.

"Raspberry," I say, as I hand my apron off to him. He hangs it on the inside of the pantry door before taking a seat on the stool chair under the island.

"I have to confess something," he sighs, as I sit down next to him.

"You're really a super-secret agent and you now have to kill me for knowing your secret. Not the one about your job, though…that you're terrible at participating in recreational activities," I theorize, bringing a laugh out of him.

"Uh, no but that sounds more interesting than what my actual confession is," he laughs, and shakes his head. "I'm actually enjoying this."

"It was like I was right the whole time," I gasp, with wonder in my voice. "You should listen to me more often."

"I'm reminded of that nearly every day I've been here," he says, going on about how I've been right about the beach and how nice small towns are.

I manage to get him talking about what he likes to do outside of work, but not without a bit of effort.