Rise: Populations Crumble, Book 2 by Gandy, A. (animal farm read .TXT) 📗

the mixer as Patrick pulls it out, but I don’t turn to face him. Instead, I brace both hands on the cool stone countertop, and watch the butter and sugar dance around the shiny bowl. Once the butter is light as a cloud, I crack and add the eggs one at a time. I turn it off to scrape down and begin adding my dry ingredients. I quickly measure and add them all, and with one more quick whiz around the mixer, the cookie dough is ready.

My movements are calm and practiced as I scoop out perfectly portioned globs of dough onto the baking sheet. Once I slide it onto the middle rack and start the timer, I finally turn to face Patrick. Somehow, I find I can’t quite meet his eyes, so I guess his hands will have to do. They’re relaxed, strong, and lying on the countertop. He’s not a man that fidgets, and I appreciate that about him.

“Sadie, I really wish you’d talk to me,” he starts. “But if you won’t, can I tell you what I’m thinking? You can chime in when you’re ready.”

I glance up to see his sincere gaze before quickly dropping my eyes again, and nod.

“I think we both know that we’re not ready to take things to the next level yet.”

Tension I didn’t know I’d been holding in my shoulders starts to drain away at those words.

“However, we still need to decide how we want to handle the expectations of the medical director. They fully expect us to be tracking some things this week, and while I find that ludicrous, we can’t do much about that at the moment.” This time I look up and lock eyes with him.

He finds it ridiculous, too? The smile he gives me is warm, and this time when he reaches across the counter to hold my hand, I don’t draw it away.

“Sadie, I told you before that we’d take things at your speed, and I meant it. Nothing has changed. I’m in this for the long haul with you, not just this week. All I ask is that you please don’t pull away from me again. I’d like to keep building this with you, and it felt like you were finally starting to open up to me again.”

My heart melts a little at his words, and I feel foolish for being so worried earlier. He’s never pushed me, and always been a gentleman. “Thank you, Patrick. I feel the same way. I guess I got overwhelmed when those stupid alarms went off, and my brain started racing a mile a minute. I know what they’re expecting, and Faith already warned me not to put it off because we could get sent to some sort of ‘intensive getaway’”—I use finger quotes—“which is basically solitary confinement for couples.”

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Are you serious?”

I nod. “I would not joke about that.”

He runs a hand through his dark hair, and I can’t tell if it’s with annoyance or anger. “Don’t worry about that, okay? I will go and talk with the director if I need to. They’re going to have to give us some time here, and it doesn’t matter where they send us, that is not changing.” His voice takes on a protective undertone, and a little shiver runs down my back when he squeezes my fingers.

I stare into his deep blue eyes, and once again I find myself thankful that he’s who I’m doing this with. Were it not for the political issues, he’d fit right into my family. I frown, realizing we need to discuss his family’s political expectations, too.

“Patrick, I know we won’t be meeting each other’s families for a while, but what are your parents expecting, exactly?”

He runs his hand through his hair again, and this time I can tell he’s agitated by my question. He lets out a tired sigh before answering, “That is an excellent question, Sadie.”

The oven timer beeps, saving him for a moment from answering. I slide the tray out of the oven with the blue paisley oven mitt and set another timer for them to cool before turning back to him.

“Those smell amazing. Did you really make those from memory?” He sniffs the air like a cartoon character.

“Yeah, they’re one of my favorites. I know the recipe by heart. Also, you told me once that your mom used to make you chocolate chip cookies, and I never did get around to making you any.” I shrug one shoulder. “I’m a stress baker.”

“I hate to say it, but I think you should be stressed more often if this is how you deal with it. Can I have one?”

I can’t help but laugh at that; his excitement is endearing. “Sorry, you’ve got to wait for them to cool or else they’ll fall apart. Besides, we’re supposed to be talking about your family expectations, remember? You can’t do that with a mouth full of cookies.”

He groans. “That’s the worst reason ever to not give me a cookie.”

I shake my head and grab two small dessert plates out of the cabinet, and two short glasses. Surprise, they are all blue, too. Grabbing the milk carton from the fridge door, I fill the cups before nailing him with a no-nonsense look. “No talking—no cookies.”

He raises both hands and says, “Okay, okay. To be honest, I think they’re expecting me to come home soon and start running for office.”

My jaw drops. I appreciate his honesty, but that’s not what I expected him to say. “But, you’ve been living under an assumed name for years, and it sounds like you barely see them. Why would they expect you to come home and follow along in your dad’s footsteps?”

He sinks his head into his hands. “As much as I’d like to not think about it, my parents think it’s very likely that there’ll be a vote to move the North American Alliance to a monarchy soon.”

My stomach clenches at his admission. “Soon, like how soon?”