The best he could come up with was a pair of sweatpants he didn’t even recall owning and an old university sweatshirt. They’d do for the night. He laid them to rest outside the bathroom door. The water was no longer running, so he knocked, letting her know he’d left them for her. Back downstairs, he dug out two mugs, poured the coffee, and began rattling through the cabinets. His mind kept going back to the flash of disappointment in Clara’s eyes when she’d mentioned the molasses cookies—they were definitely worth the blue ribbon Mrs. McGregor won every year at the fair—and remembered in the hubbub of work last week his sister had stopped by.
With a cookie jar.
Asher had thanked her for it, setting it down on the counter and promptly forgetting up it until that moment. Though perhaps not
