Lie, Lie Again - Stacy Wise Page 0,6

into a sprint when he walked into the room. “Carson had a bottle at seven thirty and was asleep by eight.”

“Thanks, Riki. You’re sure sweet to help us out so much.”

She bit back her smile, trying to contain it, but it spread across her face. It felt like her cheeks were on fire. Was her blushing obvious? She looked down as she shouldered her tote, wishing she could gain control of her reaction to Brandon. “Happy to do it,” she said, forcing a detached tone. “See you soon.”

“Wait!” Embry wriggled from Brandon’s arms and rushed to the kitchen, taking a foil-wrapped plate from the counter and placing it in Riki’s hands. “Death-by-chocolate cookies.” She paused. “I usually don’t bake with chocolate. I’m more of a fruit-and-butter kind of gal, but for some reason, chocolate appealed to me.” She shrugged. “Anyway, I hope you enjoy them.”

“Thanks. You make the best treats. You could open your own bake shop.”

Embry smiled. “There was a time I was working on it. I was hoping to start with a stand at the farmers’ market. I got my permit, but then Carson came along, and well . . .”

“Life got in the way,” Riki finished. “And I’m going to have to carve out time for extra spin classes if you keep giving me cookies.” She wouldn’t let them pay her for babysitting, but nonetheless, Embry insisted on sending home-baked treats with her every time she watched the kids.

Brandon rubbed a hand down his stomach—the stomach that Riki knew was muscled to perfection. Every Saturday morning, she was reminded of that when he cut the grass shirtless. Apparently, the Taylors’ rent was reduced thanks to his mowing skills. Whatever the case, if she timed it right, she never missed a viewing.

“Don’t I know it? It’s hard to resist the sweet stuff.”

Her face flamed hotter. Was that a double entendre? Was he referring to her as the sweet stuff? The smile remained on his lips. It was too much. She veered her eyes to Embry. “Thanks again for these. They won’t really kill me, right?”

Embry’s hazel eyes grew wide. “Huh?”

“Death-by-chocolate?” When Embry still didn’t get it, she added, “Poisoned cookies?”

She shook her head, laughing. “Goodness! I’ve never considered how strange the name is. Of course they’re not poisoned.”

“Right. Bad joke.” Riki tried for a laugh, but it fell flat. “Yes, well, good night, you guys. I have an early morning. It’s the jog-a-thon at school tomorrow. Bye!” She didn’t wait for a response.

Once the door was closed behind her, she sped across the long driveway to her apartment, trying to escape the frustration that chased her. It would be really nice if she had an antidote for her body’s response to Brandon.

But the truth of the matter was, he was a magnetic force she couldn’t resist. As she unlocked the door, her bag slid from her shoulder, and she heard the rip of fabric. Shoot. She’d stuffed it too full, and now the strap was tearing at the seam. Tomorrow at school, she could staple it with the industrial stapler. Or maybe one of her students could do a creative duct-tape job on it. That was the hot new fad: duct tape. Her students had already gifted her with a wallet, a key chain, and too many bracelets to count. Today she was wearing one Chloe had made with sparkly pink tape.

Setting the cookies on the counter, she scrubbed her hands at the sink before lifting the foil and plucking one from the plate. She sank her teeth into it, and her eyes fell shut as the flavors teased her taste buds until they were wide-awake and begging for more. Embry worked magic in the kitchen, but the best Riki could do was plop premade dough onto a tray and end up with semiburned rocks. She shouldn’t have made the dumb joke about poisoned cookies. Of course Embry wouldn’t poison her. Embry wasn’t the terrible person in this scenario.

The sound of Sylvia’s TV buzzed from the apartment above hers. She couldn’t make out the words, but based on the canned laughter, she assumed it was some dumb sitcom from two decades ago. Or maybe it was Friends. Sylvia loved that show. She looked like she could be Monica’s sister, but Sylvia’s figure was softer than Monica’s thin frame. The dark hair and light eyes, though? Eerily similar.

Wiping the crumbs into the trash can, she washed her hands again and sank onto the sofa. She considered turning on her