♡ 'One Moment More' ♡
a short story
Part One
This was a very, very bad idea. As I stared down at the broken sugar cookie in my hand—the remains of what had once been a perfect heart-shaped treat of delicious sugary goodness but had quickly turned into a crumbling mess the moment I picked it up from its cooling tray—I could only hope that Bailee would forgive me. I mean, after all, it was only one of the dozens of other cookies spread across the kitchen counter, dusted with flour and ready to be frosted; surely it wouldn't be a problem that I'd crushed any hopes of it ever looking presentable. Right?
But then again this was my sister—my nine-year-old sister—we were talking about, and these cookies were supposed to be "perfect" for her and her friends from school. So it was kind of a big deal. And she'd been counting on me. But of course, now, with my hands all powdery and sugar coated with guilt, my chances of resolving this little issue and winning back her admiration were very slim. Practically microscopic.
Oh, the joys of having a little sister who'll beg you to help her make cookies the day before a Valentine's Day party in school. (Sarcasm very much intended.)
"You call that art?" Without even looking at her, I could tell Bailee was smirking at me, trying—and nearly failing—to hold back her laughter at my pathetic attempts to merely frost a stupid cookie. "Hate to break it to you, sissy, but I don't think opening your own bakery any time soon is in your best interest. Or anything that involves handling things with care for that matter."
Setting golden bits of the cookie still hanging on by a slim thread down, I let out a considerably loud sigh and pushed the urge to run out of the room before anything else could go wrong away. At least she didn't sound completely disappointed in my inability to handle a cookie with care. I mean, I tried, okay? It's not like I meant to crumble it; it just happened.
"Gee, thanks, Bails," I mumbled, wiping my hands off on my green and gold butterfly apron from back in the days when I'd often helped my mum in the kitchen as a young girl (it had always been too big on me back then, anyway), and looking up at my adorably golden sister. "I'll keep that in mind if I ever decide to run my own business. Pinky swear."
She grinned at me, having momentarily abandoned her unharmed cookie to investigate the mess I'd made, her squinty blue-gray eyes sparkling behind those long lashes of hers, and stuck out her pinky across the counter space between us. "Pinky swear, huh? Let's have it."
Darn it. Why did she have to be so freakin' adorable? That smug –and yet somehow still innocent – look on her face made it impossible to wallow in my mourning over the death of the mouth-watering dessert I had just destroyed. Especially since I didn't believe the loss of one little heart-shaped cookie could ever hurt anybody anyways.
Not willing to dwell on the subject for even a second longer, I leaned across the counter and wound my pinky around hers, shaking on it. "Pinky swear," I promised. "Now can we just move on please? I'm really sorry I ruined your cookie." I pressed my palms flat against a relatively clear space—merely sprinkled with flour—on the smooth marble counter top, the surface cool beneath my fingertips, and blew a strand of white-blond hair (lightened from the previous summer spent at our beach house by the shore) that had fallen from the messy bun on top of my head out of my face, cracking a small smile.
