Chapter 1:19 A Cookie, Xoxo Nyx

After a pretty horrid orientation, and the reminder that I am nothing more than gutter trash to the elites on this side of the tracks, I’m more than happy to follow Ryan and get a feel for all of it.

I don’t mind, really. Not when I can finally get into the state-of-the-art kitchen I’d been drooling over. Honestly, I’m used to the judgment, and it doesn’t deter me from my excitement.

This feels like a real chance.

This is the one place. The one type of quiet that doesn’t sound like a barrage of bullets through a blind thick. That doesn’t feel like projected missiles of anxiety, regret, and fear charging me from all sides.

The trauma is always there, whether I can remember it or not, but I have gone almost a full year without a flashback.

I’m no master chef or anything like that. Sure, I can put together a few basic meals, but the real science is in baking. Following the instructions to a tee, clearing my mind of any questions or negativity, with the reward of a sweet, well-earned treat at the end.

The kitchen is one place I don’t have doubts, only well-built confidence, if not peace.

When Nicky calls, I put my phone on silent. Still miffed and unwilling to confess what I’d done to get the chance I am. Certain that I can make it through the evening, no problem. Four cups of coffee in at two am, waiting for all my doughs to rise and set, I’m about to hum right out of my skin.

With nothing else to occupy my mind and hands, I set out to fix the squeaky table that made my teeth grind. I also sweat the portly fellow sat there on purpose to be as obnoxious as possible while I cleared out and wiped down the bakery display at eleven pm.

I’m fighting the stubborn screw as if it were the portly gentleman when I hear a bell somewhere in the distance. I know it clicks in what Alex calls my kitten senses, but I’m not really used to that meaning service. I don’t know how long there is between the chime and the fuss of a little kid.

That I’m most definitely attuned to, and it stops me in my tracks. Peaking over my shoulder from underneath the circle for two, I find a perfect matching set of toddler and man in pajamas.

“Oh... Umm.. hi.. er sorry.” I manage to whack my head on the table, I’m so startled. “The bell... I thought....” Why can’t I speak?

Ugh.

I close my eyes, crawling out of the space and take deep calming breaths, before opening my eyes to the overly tall and gorgeous brunette looking down on me.

Sorry, Eric Denton, current idol and underwear cover model you may be, but you got nothing on this man.

There is no mistaking him for a woman at over six and a half feet tall with a close to five o clock shadow beard. Neatly shaped around the edges as it is, the facial hair is still present with a clean thick neck and bobbing Adam’s apple.

Still, the ocean’s of his eyes are like the Caribbean, thickly lined with dark lashes, liquid liner and glittered smokey shadows I’d definitely failed to achieve with my makeup for the evening.

The man’s top-heavy bowed lips have clear gloss like his perfectly manicured nails. I also can’t tell if those mile long and perfectly curled lashes are fake or not as I find a way to stand in his presence.

The well-defined cheekbones and mussed chocolate locks only add to the exoticism. No one, and I mean no one, should look this..... beautiful rolling out of bed at this hour. The matching clothes of the model and his mini-me, sans the makeup, is the kind of thing you only see in movies or magazines.

One more fuss comes with the gator tears on wee man, and my heart is set to melt. “Oh no,” I reach out to the distressed infant. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s about a year old. “We having a bad night, Mister Man?” The kid wails his distress, bringing a soothing pat, from Dad.

Looking more closely, the poor guy has bags on bags, with the rings around his eyes carefully masked with concealer. His naturally bronzed skin is also a bit more lackluster, with his whimper responding to the little one’s wails.

“A promised cookie was the only thing that would calm him.” Both of our eyes trail to the empty pastry case I’d already cleaned.

Dad’s voice is likely much deeper than he’s presenting it to be, and I can tell by the drool and the tiny fingers the little one is mashing away at between yowls of his colorful tale that he’s teething.

Likely meaning Dad has not slept.

“A cookie?” I ask, hands on my knees, angling to get him to look at me again. Sounding the word as if it is the most interesting and exciting thing I’ve ever heard. Smiling when he pulls out of Dad’s neck, blinking those bright and discerning peepers at the tone I’ve taken.

“Sorry he’s......” The cherub’s little fingers reach for me, and no part of me can help the easy reach to scoop him up and coddle all those worries away. Kids are my ultimate weakness. The double-edged sword that can put me in the saddest or best mood ever.

For some reason, he seems very, familiar to me, but then again, kids are my ultimate weakness. The double-edged sword that can put me in the saddest or best mood ever.

Dad hits me with a look of disbelief as Mister Man seems content to crawl up my chest. His fingers finally free from his rosy cheeks, going on in a story for the ages while I breathe him in and listen.

“Oh my goodness,” I say when the toddler breaks the babble and tears, smoothing his locks. “Then what happened?” My question has him continuing, but more calmly the longer I hold and rock him, walking behind the counter.

“Well. You know what will help with alllll of that?” I ask when he’s settled his head on my neck, giving to twirling his fingers in my hair. Poor thing is exhausted, but not quite willing to submit to sleep with how uncomfortable he is.

The little one blinks, taking in every word as I show him the ‘cave of wonders’ that is the few narrow shelves of lost and found in addition to employee belongings. At the bottom is a small cubed fridge for our lunches, no such thing as a free meal here like most eateries give their workers.

I picked up a pack of shaved ice, and put a flavor of each in the assortment pack on the counter in front of them. “You pick,” I say to him and Dad. Not incredibly handsome gay man that might make me drool if I look too long.

No, just Dad picks up the mango flavor while I set the wee man on the counter.

The loss of contact has him fussing again, at least until I scoop a small spoon of the treat into his mouth. The baby’s drooly fingers latch on to mine.

It takes a second, but those aquamarine eyes go from slightly wing tipped to owlishly round and large with the uncertainty of the new flavor and sensation. That second that kids decide if they love or hate the experience hangs in the expression.

I give him a beaming smile of encouragement when he clamps down, deciding that it is, in fact, a good thing. “See? Waaayyyyy better than a cookie.″ The little one agrees, clapping his feet, not willing to let go of his treat. Chewing on the spoon as if the silver coated plastic will produce more of it.