Right—water would be good. Oliver’s hands were growing dangerously hot despite the oven mitts so he took off after her.
She jerked the front door open and stood to the side while he ran outside and barreled straight into the pond. With a silent apology to Fred and Wilma, he threw the whole damn mess into the water before tearing off the oven mitts and letting them fall to the water. He bent over and let the water cover his hands. It wasn’t cold because the day had been sunny and warm but compared to the hot cookie sheet, the water felt amazing.
A few yards away, the cookie sheet hit the water with a sizzle, as if he’d been forging iron. He looked up to see the whole thing floating, the hockey pucks formerly known as cookies still smoking.
On the far side of the pond, Fred and Wilma made a lot of noise and flapped their wings in displeasure at having their evening swim disrupted.
“Tell me about it,” he muttered, turning his attention back to his palms. They were red but not burned. He didn’t see any blisters forming, nor any white skin that signaled a severe burn.
He dunked his hands back in the water, just to be sure.
He heard a strangled noise behind him and he looked over his shoulder. Renee was standing a few feet up the bank. She’d managed to grab her T-shirt and it hung down to the top of her hips, the hem fluttering in the breeze. Backlit by the setting sun, he could see every inch of her silhouette outlined and that was when his brain chose to remember that, less than ten minutes ago, he’d been inside her, feeling the shocks of her body releasing a climax upon his.
But something wasn’t right. Her hands covered her mouth, her eyes were huge and her shoulders were shaking. It about broke his heart to see her like that.
They were just cookies. It wasn’t like she’d burned the house down or scarred him for life. He didn’t like her looking so fragile, so scared.
But then she asked, “Are you okay?” in a voice that was strangled—but it wasn’t horror or misery that laced her words.
He recognized that voice. He’d heard it countless times back when they’d been kids and he and Clint had fallen for one of Renee and Chloe’s pranks—he was thinking specifically of clear tape strung across his bedroom door that Oliver had walked into it so hard that he’d been knocked off his feet, tape stuck in his hair.
And Renee had stood over him then, looking almost exactly like she did right now—trying so hard not to giggle at the raging success of her trick. Trying, instead, to look worried and she’d uttered the exact same words.
She hadn’t succeeded then and she wasn’t succeeding now. “Are you laughing at me?”
“No!” she answered way too quickly. “I’m...” She took a deep breath, visibly getting herself under control. “I want to make sure your hands aren’t burned.”
The smoke detectors beeped from deep inside the house. Fred and Wilma continued to express their displeasure on the other side of the pond, with Pebbles and Bamm-Bamm joining in. But all he could hear was the barely contained amusement in her voice. “Fine,” he said coolly, because it was the truth and he didn’t want her to worry. “Just a little warm. No burns, no blisters.”
“Good.” Her gaze cut to his backside at the exact same moment a stiff breeze rippled over the surface of the pond. And his butt.
His bare butt. The one that was sticking straight up in the air because he was bent over at the waist. Everything was hanging all the way out.
“Do you think,” she said, dropping her hands and trying to look serious, “that there’ll be a full moon tonight?”
Holy hell, this woman. She was easily going to be the death of him, and quite possibly his house. But honestly? He was so damned relieved she was okay, that the same mischievous, hilarious Renee who’d driven him up a wall when they’d been kids was still in there that he wanted to laugh with him.
But this was Renee after all, and he wasn’t about to let her off the hook that easily. Turning, he scowled at her as he walked out of the pond. “You think this is funny?”
“Maybe.” She sobered and took a step back as he advanced on her. “Maybe not.”
“This is the second night in a row you’ve nearly burned down the house, Renee. I don’t think I’m going to let you bake anymore.”
The light in her eyes dimmed as she paled and she crossed her arms over her stomach, almost curling into herself even though she didn’t so much as bend at the waist. Shit, he’d taken it too far. He wanted to make her sweat a little but he didn’t want to beat her down.
Fight back, he thought as he got nose to nose with her. Fight for yourself. “You, ma’am, are a menace to baked goods the world over,” he intoned in the most pompous voice he possessed. “I’d even go so far as to say you’re a monster to cookies everywhere, to say nothing of how you’re terrorizing my kitchen, my swans and myself!”
Behind him, Fred—or maybe it was Wilma—whooped from much closer. Involuntarily, he flinched because no one wanted to be bitten on the ass—or other exposed parts—by an angry bird with a six-foot wingspan. He looked over his shoulder. The swans and cygnets had swum over to investigate the now-sinking cookie sheet, so his butt was safe. For now.
He turned back to Renee. She stared up at him, confusion written all over her face. “Did...did you just call me a cookie monster?”
“If the shoe fits.” He snarled. Well, he tried to snarl. But suddenly the effort of
