“What are you doing?” Tate asked. “Baking cookies.” “Can’t sleep?” She moved the phone to her other ear. “Maybe I always make cookies on Sundays.” “Why can’t you sleep?” Ivy frowned, irritated that he seemed to know her so well already. “Sometimes I just can’t.” Tate hummed. “What kind of cookies?” “Chocolate chip.” “Are you going to open the door if I come over?” Her pulse quickened. “Why would you come over?” “For a cookie.” A stronger woman might say no. But yeah, she was going to cave.
