That subtle twinge had nothing to do with a handsome doctor who was trying to cope with a forlorn little girl and a mischievous dog.
It absolutely did not.
Mashing her lips together, she rose and headed back to the kitchen as the faint barks next door ceased at last.
That was her story—and she was sticking to it.
5
Something was burning.
The acrid scent that assailed Logan’s nostrils when he opened the front door was his first clue—but the piercing alarm bombarding his ears clinched the deal.
“What the . . .”
Toby yanked on his leash, trying to escape the migraine-inducing screech, and Molly began to whimper as she covered her ears.
“It’s okay, sweetie.” He had to yell to be heard. “Everything will be fine.”
Even if the haze hovering beneath the ceiling suggested otherwise.
What was going on?
He did a quick assessment. The smoke was heavier closer to the kitchen, so— Kitchen.
The cookies were still in the oven.
That’s what was burning.
He tugged Molly and the frantic dog inside. “Wait here.” The house might be a touch hazy, but Toby was not escaping again.
After closing the front door, he sped to the kitchen.
Tendrils of smoke were seeping out of the oven from around the door.
Logan snatched up a pot holder, yanked on the door handle—and started hacking as a gray billow engulfed him.
Eyes watering, he waved the smoke aside, grabbed the edge of the cookie sheet, and stumbled toward the back door, blinking to clear his vision as he fumbled for the lock.
After several attempts, he managed to twist it, grasp the knob, and jerk the door open.
Once outside, he dropped the pan onto the concrete walk below the porch and took a deep breath.
Another.
But he didn’t have the luxury of lingering until his lungs cleared.
A terrified little girl and dog were waiting for him in the foyer.
He propped open the back door, took a fortifying gulp of fresh air, and plunged back in to remove the battery from the shrieking alarm.
Blessed quiet descended.
Except . . .
Why wasn’t Toby barking?
Pulse skyrocketing again, he dashed back to the foyer.
Molly was sitting on the floor, face pale, her arms wrapped around the dog, who was nuzzling her neck.
Well.
How about that?
Their cookies might be toast—literally—but there was one positive outcome from their baking misadventure.
These two seemed to have bonded.
“Is there a fire?” Molly watched him, saucer-eyed.
“No, but our cookies got burned.”
“We could eat those.” She pointed to the cellophane bag Jeannette had given him, which he’d dropped on the hall table as he sprinted to the kitchen.
“Excellent idea. Are you hungry?”
She gave him her typical shrug.
“Well, I am. Let’s get some milk and we’ll give them a try.”
Try being the operative word.
There wasn’t much chance lavender shortbread would offer any serious competition to chocolate chip cookies—but his neighbor’s gesture had been thoughtful.
Molly followed him into the kitchen, Toby trotting beside her. She halted in the doorway and wrinkled her nose. “It stinks in here.”
“That’s from the smoke. But it will smell better soon, now that the door is open.” He verified the screen was locked, set the cellophane package on the table, and poured them each a glass of milk.
After taking a seat, he untied the purple ribbon and held it up. “Ms. Mason said you could use this in your ponytail. Want me to tie a bow back there for you?”
Instead of responding, she swiveled her head to give him access.
He sighed.
The child his mother had often called Miss Chatterbox was definitely MIA.
He secured the ribbon with a few deft twists. “Want to see?”
She regarded him in silence for a few moments while she chewed her lower lip, then gave a slow nod.
“Let’s look in the bathroom mirror.” He stood and reached for her hand, but she skirted around him and disappeared down the hall.
Trying not to take her rejection personally, he followed her to the bathroom, pulled out a hand mirror, and demonstrated how to hold it so she could see the back of her head.
It didn’t take her long to get the hang of it, and a tiny smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she examined her reflection. “Pretty.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I like ribbons.” She fingered the dangling satin strands.
Of course she did. What young girl didn’t?
He should have bought her some sooner.
Another lapse as a father.
Logan exhaled.
Would he ever get the hang of this job?
“Why don’t we buy you some more ribbons on our next trip to town? Would you like that?”
She shrugged, set the mirror down, and traipsed back to the kitchen.
He raked his fingers through his hair.
If this kept up, he might have to enlist the aid of a child psychologist or counselor.
Back in the kitchen, he pulled out a cookie for each of them and handed hers over. “Let’s see if we like these.”
After giving his heart-shaped piece of shortbread a skeptical scan, he sniffed it.
Not as pungent as he’d expected.
In fact, the cookie’s faint, pleasing aroma didn’t smell anything like Gram’s cloying, old-fashioned perfume—his only previous contact with lavender.
But could you bake palatable sweets from flowers?
“It’s good.” Molly had dived into hers with no qualms and was several bites ahead of him.
Question answered—and high praise, coming from a child who exemplified the term “picky eater.”
He took a tentative nibble.
Buttery richness dissolved on his tongue, leaving a faint hint of lemon and an undertone of mint.
Whoa.
The cookie was better than good.
It was delicious.
He finished it in three bites and pulled out a second one as Molly eyed the package. “Want another?”
She nodded.
They ate in silence for sixty seconds, until Molly spoke. “The cookie lady is nice.”
“Yes, she is.” At the very least.
“Could we go see her again?” Molly took a bite of her treat, watching him.
“I’ll have to think about that.”
“Why?”
Because Jeannette Mason was too much of a temptation for a man who needed to keep his priorities straight and get his life in order before diving into any new relationships.
But he couldn’t tell that to a five-year-old.
“I think she’s busy.”
“Doing what?”
Of all the topics that could have prompted his niece to start asking questions, why did it have to be this one?
“Well, she grows flowers . . . and makes cookies . . . and runs her tearoom.” The “and tearoom” part of her Bayview Lavender Farm sign at the entrance had finally registered as they’d walked home.
Molly’s brow puckered. “What’s a tearoom?”
“A place where people go to drink tea and eat little sandwiches and fancy cakes.”
At least he thought that’s what it was.
“Like a tea party?”