The Dysasters (The Dysasters #1)(53)

Sabine’s braids rested on the table as she tilted her head. “What?”

“You keep looking at me like you have something to say, so just say it.” Foster opened the spice cabinet a little too forcefully.

Sabine flipped her hair over her shoulder and shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Okay, but if you don’t stop staring at me like I’m an alien, you’re not getting any cookies. I’m hoarding them all for myself.” Foster turned the bag of chocolate chips over so the recipe was faceup. She read the instructions five times and still hadn’t registered what the short, numbered sentences wanted her to do. Was this what it would be like with anyone who found out what she was capable of? She shook her head. Maybe if she just carried on like nothing major had happened, Sabine would, too.

“This says baking soda,” Foster lifted onto her tiptoes and peered into the cabinet. “But we only have baking powder.” She removed the tin from the shelf, popped the lid, and jiggled the round canister. “They look the same.” She offered it to Sabine. “Do you think there’s really a difference?”

“Foster, I don’t think you’re an alien, but I’m starting to think that you might be blind.”

Foster squinted at the can. “They seriously look the same. They’re both white powders.”

Sabine sighed. “Not that. But yes, you can use baking powder instead of baking soda. The texture might be a little different but—” she sighed again. “God, girl, now you’ve got me talking about cookies.” Yet another sigh, this one far more annoyed sounding than the first two. “You do realize that he’s cute, right?”

Foster set the baking powder next to the bowl and closed the cabinet. “Who?”

“Who?” Sabine’s eyebrows practically rocketed into her hairline. “Tate! That’s who.”

Tate? Foster thought, tearing open the corner of the bag of chocolate chips. No way. He was goofy and tall and sort of reminded her of Clark Kent, who just happened to be the boy-next-door version of her favorite superhero of all time, what with his dark hair and strong bone structure and Midwestern ness—oh my god. She crammed a handful of chocolate into her mouth. “I guess,” she said, around the melting sugary mass.

“You guess?”

Foster swallowed. “Yes, Polly, I guess.”

Sabine blinked up at her.

“She’s a parrot,” Foster offered.

Sabine’s perfectly manicured brow wrinkled. “Now that’s one bird Finn does not own.”

“No, because you keep repeating me,” Foster sighed. “Never mind. My point is that I guess I noticed that maybe Tate is a little on the cute side.”

If a little cute means that last night I might have accidentally on purpose positioned myself to see him come out of the bathroom right after he finished showering, then yes, he’s definitely a little cute. Her cheeks heated with the memory of his muscular wet torso, towel-clad waist, and that silly, smiley wave he’d given her while blushing himself.

But Foster kept that part to herself. After all, it was only that one time.

Sabine snorted.

“What?” Foster tensed, afraid that she might have admitted aloud her vaguely pervy, stalker-like behavior.

It was just the one time! she practically shouted at herself.

“You know that boy is fine.” Foster opened her mouth to object, but Sabine held up her slender, perfectly manicured finger, shushing Foster until she’d finished. “And I can tell you know how fine he is,” she continued with a tilt of her head. “Because, right now, your cheeks are as red as your hair.”

Foster clapped her hands over her traitorous cheeks. “They are not!” she exclaimed, trying to keep from spilling chocolate chips all over the floor.

“You are lying.” The last word came out more in song than statement.

“Am not.” Foster poured another mound of chocolate into her hand before dumping it into her mouth. At this rate, her cookies would just be batter.

“You can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to me.”

Foster sank into the chair opposite Sabine. If she was being honest, Foster spent quite a bit of time thinking about Tate and his stupid, gorgeous face and how nice he was even when she was being horrible. She’d even sighed aloud on more than one occasion when she’d innocently, accidentally, in no way on purpose stared at him while he was out shirtless in the pasture. “Apparently I can’t lie to myself, either.”

“I knew it,” Sabine said with a clap. “I just knew it!”

“Wait. You set me up? You didn’t actually know how I felt about Tate. You were fishing.”

Sabine held up her hands. “Before you spin off into one of your defensive, ‘I don’t need anybody I can do this by myself’ tantrum things, I have a plan.”

“I don’t have tantrums.”

“I have heard many a story.” Arching her brow, Sabine blinked slowly. “Self-reflection isn’t really your thing, is it?”

“Shut up!” Foster exclaimed in a burst of laughter.

“So, you want to hear my idea?”

Foster nodded listlessly before eyeing the opened bag of chocolates and wishing she’d never put them down.

“There’s this place, Bella Farms, just down the main street from here, and every Friday night they have dancing and food and general jubilance.” Her pointed fingernails clicked against the table in an unidentifiable rhythm. “And today happens to be Friday, so we should go.”