"Nice place," I state, hands in pockets, not knowing what else to say.

"I would say thank you but it's not my house, it's my sister's. She'd done a great job decorating."

Taking in the decor, I ask, "Is she a wine drinker? Because it sure as hell looks like it." Everywhere I look there is either a picture of wine, wine bottles, or wine corks shoved in decorative vases.

"She loves wine. She always tries to get me to drink a glass with her, but I've never had alcohol so it's kind of scary to me."

My brow furrows together. Never had alcohol? Oh hell, she is innocent. "You've never had a drink? You're twenty-one, right?"

"Yeah." She shrugs. "Just never thought about it before. Do you drink?"

A sarcastic laugh pops out of me. "Yeah. I've had a beer or two."

"Beer seems like it tastes gross. Matt drinks beer and I've smelled it a couple of times, it really smells like butt."

Like butt. I laugh out loud. Of course she wouldn't say it smells like ass.

"I can assure you, beer doesn't taste like . . . butt. It's an acquired taste though." Taking in the kitchen, I see she has everything set up, things already measured out, and the double oven preheated. Shit, I need to confess to her or else this is going to be more awkward than is has to be.

"Are you ready to get started? I have aprons for us."

Holding up two frilly white aprons, she smiles at me. Not in a smart-ass way, but in a way that says she's genuinely serious about wearing the 1950s aprons in her hands, like we are Betty Croker and Julia Child.

Christ.

Grabbing the back of my neck, I say, "Uh, yeah. I kind of have something to tell you."

"Oh?" She sets my apron on the counter and starts tying hers around her waist. When she cinches it, I catch a glimpse at just how small her waist is. I knew she was petite under those drab clothes.

"I should have told you earlier, but I'm a chef."

Pausing, her hands come to a standstill, no longer tying a double knot with the apron straps over her stomach. "You're a chef?" The way she asks the question-complete disappointment in her voice-makes me feel like shit. It's rare I feel like shit, but I do right now.

"Yeah."

"Like a professional chef?"

Would I call myself a professional? I don't know. Stirring a pot and dumping noodles in boiling water doesn't make me feel like a professional. It makes me feel like a man who barely knows how to hold his own in the kitchen, someone who specializes in making "cheesy dogs." Aka, hot dogs with a split down the center and a slice of cheddar stuffed inside. Classy.

"Well, I went to school for it."

"So you're trained?" Her expression falls some more. Christ, I feel like the lowest piece of shit ever. I've never cared about disappointing people, but hell, Daisy doesn't hide her emotions at all. They are like a Technicolor picture shown on a brilliantly large IMAX movie screen, there for everyone to see and experience. "Then it seems pretty silly for me to teach you how to make meatloaf. I'm sure you can make a meatloaf way better than mine."

"Maybe," I say like a dick, because I have no practice in being nice.

"Yeah, probably." Sighing, she looks around the kitchen.

Shit, how do I fix this? Normally I couldn't care less, but Daisy is different. She's like a grown-up child, someone you never want to disappoint.

"Um, I guess you can go home if you want."

"Do you want me to go home?"

She's avoiding all eye contact with me, trying not to lay out her cards, but with my question, she glances at me briefly, giving me a straight shot into those crystal-blue eyes of hers, slaying me right in half with her purity.

"I don't know. Seems silly for me to teach you how to make something you already know how to do." I'm about to agree with her when she says, "Is there something you don't know how to cook?"

Not so much. I've studied cooking for so long that I'm pretty sure if you asked me to make anything, I would be able to deliver.

"Not really." I wrack my brain for something and then it hits me. "Honestly, I don't know much about baking. Do you?"

Eyes meet mine, and her smile stretches across her face, shining with pure joy. "Carter, I am so good at baking," she practically cheers. She really is sweet . . .

"Is that right?" Her enthusiasm is infectious.

"It is! Oh gosh, what should we make?" Without even pausing to talk about it, she goes to the pantry and starts shuffling through ingredients. "Darn, no butterscotch or chocolate chips." Some more moving of cans on the shelf. "There's canned pumpkin but that's out of season. Hmm . . . oh I've got it." Whipping around with a box of raisins, she asks, "Do you like oatmeal raisin cookies?"

"Love them but can't bake worth shit."

"Then it's settled. I'll teach you how to make my special oatmeal raisin cookies." Clapping her hands together, she jumps in excitement, and then starts pulling ingredients off the shelf. "This is going to be fun, Carter." Fun.

Fun might not be the right word. Interesting is more like it. Yeah, this is going to be interesting.

DAISY.

"Hell, these are good," Carter says with a mouthful of cookie. I watch him closely examine the cookie before he takes another bite. "They're so chewy."

"It's the flour and Karo syrup." I wink and wipe up the counter. "My grams taught me all the secrets."

"Your grams is a smart woman." He takes another bite, closes his eyes and really tastes the cookie. It's something I noticed right away when baking with Carter. He likes to smell and taste everything. It's fascinating. He told me his best tools in his chef toolbox are his taste buds and nose, so he constantly tastes and smells things, which is funny to me, because they are simple baking ingredients. "Do you bake a lot, Snowflake?"

"I do. I love baking. When I was living with Grams, we would spend the whole day baking and then take baskets around to the different firehouses in the area to thank them for their hard work."

Carter has his arms folded across his chest, his hip leaning against the counter, and an inquisitive look on his face, those deep brown eyes intensely observing me from under his jet-black hair. I've enjoyed his company, but I've also felt very exposed the entire time, not from his questioning or his posture, but by the way his eyes thoughtfully study my every movement.

What's he thinking? Not that I'm very good at reading people, but I would like to at least see some kind of tell from him. Does he think I'm funny? Dorky? Insecure? Could he see me shake when I dumped ingredients in the bowl? Could he hear the waver in my voice when I spoke about the recipe and how to not overmix the batter? Can he sense how nervous I am around him?

I invited Carter over to grow my support system, to make friends. I really put myself out there, broke past some fears of mine to have him over and yet, all I can think about is how incredibly handsome he is, but not in the typical sense. He's different, dark, very mysterious, and the complete and total opposite of my personality.

I've tried to keep myself from staring at him, from leaning in to smell his intoxicating cologne, and getting too close, breaking his personal space, but it's been hard. I've felt very awkward around him. I hate that. I hate that I can't be one of those confident girls when talking to a man.

But I shouldn't be worried about that. He's supposed to be my friend and nothing else. I'm not in this program to try to fall for the first guy I meet, I'm supposed to be discovering a new me. My priorities aren't straight. Today was supposed to be about growth for myself but instead, I'm acting like a teenage girl around a cute boy. Or at least what I think that is like. He's so worldly wise, he can probably tell how nervous I am.

"Snowflake, you've been scrubbing that bowl in the same spot for a minute. Pretty sure it's clean."

Startled from my thoughts, I jump in place, the bowl clattering around in the stainless steel sink.

"Everything okay over there?"

"Um, yup," I say, startled. "Just thinking about the program."

"Yeah, not really looking forward to the meeting this Thursday."

"Why not?" I ask, rinsing the bowl now. "I like going to the meetings. Marleen has such inspiring things to say."

"Inspired is not what I'm looking for," he answers, looking out toward the window in the dining area.

"What are you looking for then?"

"An out." His voice is grim and before I can respond, Amanda pops through the back door, purse in hand, coffee mug from the morning in the other.

"Hey Daisy, how-oh, I didn't know you had company."

With a polite smile, she takes in Carter. My cheeks heat up immediately, as if I'm being caught doing something bad.

"Welcome home, Amanda. Uh, this is my friend Carter."

"Carter?" Amanda asks knowingly then turns to assess him one more time. "Daisy's mentioned your name. It's nice to meet you."

Wincing, I turn to Carter who's dropped the casual stance and is now standing ramrod straight. I have a feeling he's no longer comfortable. Was he ever comfortable? I like to think so, but with Amanda here, I'm sure he's feeling quite awkward, especially with the way she keeps looking him up and down.

"Hey." He nods in her direction and then turns to me. "I've got to get going. Thanks for the baking lesson."

Without another word, he goes to the entryway and from the sound of it, starts putting on his boots.

Heat crawls up my neck, embarrassment and humiliation swallowing me whole. Not knowing what to do, I turn to Amanda who waves her hand in Carter's direction, telling me without words to see him to the door.

I dry my hands on a dish towel and head to the entryway where Carter is already putting on his jacket. Jeeze, he's quick.

Twisting my hands in front of me, I ask, "Do you want any cookies to go?"

"That's okay," he answers without looking up.

Goodness, did I do something wrong? I try to think back to a few minutes ago and recalculate everything I said. Was any of it offensive? I don't think so. Did I pester him too much? Dive too much into his personal life? Not really.

Is it me? Does he just not want to hang out with me? Did he not have a good time? Sweat starts to prick the back of my neck. I thought I did everything right. I was kind, polite, I took his jacket, I made conversation, and I showed him how to make cookies. But was that not enough? Did I stare at him too much?

The notion of him noticing my wandering eyes makes my stomach roll. Please don't let that be it. How humiliating.

Grasping on to anything, I say, "I hope you had a nice time."

He finishes buttoning up his jacket and tucks his helmet under his arm while putting on his gloves. His eyes dart up to mine, dark to light, our eyes opposite, our personalities completely different, our outlook on life not even close to matching.

There is a slight tilt to his head, a small smirk to his lips, a small lean in his posture when he says, "I had a nice time, Snowflake. Thanks for having me over."

"Then why are you leaving?" The words escape me before I can stop them, surprising me. I clamp my hand over my mouth and shake my head, so terribly embarrassed. "Don't answer that," I say quickly. My stomach flips, sweat coats my upper lip, and saliva starts to rise in my mouth. "Um, I need to go. Please shut the door when you leave." Before he can say bye, I run up the stairs to my bathroom where I quickly grab on to the toilet, my eyes watering.

Ashamed, flustered, totally abashed, I sit on the floor of my bathroom, unable to comprehend the emotions rolling through me.

I invited a friend over for the first time. When he wasn't aware, I . . . I lusted over his handsome features. When he was looking, I acted like an amateur, unable to converse effortlessly. I should be proud of myself for stepping out of my comfort zone, exposing myself, and taking a chance, but instead, I feel regret. What he must think of me right now?

And I have to see him in two days. Will he ignore me? Tears prick my eyes. I can't even think about it.

"Hey, are you okay in there?" Amanda knocks on the door.

Wiping my nose, I take a deep breath. "Yeah." My voice is tight so I keep it to a one-worded answer.

"Okay." Amanda pauses, and then says through the door. "He didn't say anything to hurt your feelings, did he?"

"No." I sniff.

"Okay, because, uh, Hollyn said something that worries me."

Curious, I ask, "What did she say?"

Opening the door, Amanda peeks her head in, a sad smile on her face when she sees me on the floor. "Oh, sweetie."

Quickly standing, I wipe at my clothes, straightening them along with my apron. I hold up a hand so she doesn't feel the need to embrace me. "I'm really okay. Facing fears is hard, that's all."

"Are you sure?"

I nod. "Yeah, I'm sure. So what did Hollyn tell you?"

With a concerned look, she says, "That Carter might not be the best guy and to be careful when around him."

Why would Hollyn say that? There is some history between them but it doesn't seem like it would be to the point that she would tell Amanda to warn me.

"I think Hollyn might be mistaken. I just don't think they understand each other."

Amanda shrugs. "Just be careful." From her pocket, she hands me my phone. "Here, this beeped after you went upstairs. I'm going to take a shower and then eat at least four of your cookies."

"Only if I can join you."

Winking, she says, "It's a date."

Taking off, she leaves me in the bathroom, wondering what Hollyn meant when she said to be careful. Did she really think Carter could hurt me? He might be upset about something happening in his life, but I don't believe he would ever really hurt me. Would he?

I remove my apron, splash some water on my face, and then turn to my bedroom where I change into an I Love Lucy pajama set. Even though my khakis have an elastic waistband, I still feel more comfortable in my PJs. Plus, Amanda likes to change into comfortable clothes when she gets home from work, so I like to join her and chat on the couch, all curled up and cozy.

I pull my hair into a ponytail and then reach for my phone, which is when I remember Amanda said it beeped with a message. I press the home button to make the screen come alive and immediately see a text from Carter.

A queasy feeling fills the pit of my stomach and my hand shakes as I open his message.

Carter: Why am I leaving? Because I'm not the kind of guy you should be friends with. Thanks for the cookies.

Not the kind of guy I should be friends with? Why not? Is there something I'm missing? Is it because I've never had a drink before? Maybe I'm too boring for him.

On the back of my door, there is a mirror that catches my attention. The reflection in the mirror is the girl I've always known. She's sheltered, nave, old-fashioned, maybe a little outdated, slightly childish. I've always liked her, but maybe there is more for the girl in the mirror. Maybe it's time for her to grow up. Maybe she's not as likeable as I once thought.