“Oh, my God, are those cookies?”
“Um, yeah. I—”
“Were you baking again? Why didn’t you tell me you were baking again?” Stacey Peraza all but threw the glass she was washing in the sink and marched over to the foil-lined shoebox Brandon had put on the bar. Her glossy black hair bounced on her shoulders and her stiletto heels made little thip thip thip noises on the anti-slip mat. Even with the heels she was barely five foot-four, like a Latina hobbit.
“Yeah. I—”
“Cookies,” Stacey murmured worshipfully. She lifted the lid off, peering inside like an appraiser at an art auction. “Oh, my God, it’s chocolate chip!” She grabbed one immediately. “Hey, Mel!” she bellowed at the back, “Brandon made cookies again!”
“Ow.” Brandon rubbed his ear as Melanie Stine clomped through the swinging door
