Except she wasn’t making them for her boys—who were now at school. The jar on the counter was already to the brim with their favorite Snickerdoodles. She was making the cookies for herself. Scratch that. She was making dough. And then she was going to eat it, raw. It was in celebration of the best climax of her life, delivered with raunchy talk and by the experienced hands and mouth of dark and deep Reed Hopkins. All weekend she’d been unable to get him out of her mind. Of course, she’d had all the mother things to occupy her: laundry, new-sneaker shopping, a birthday party to which Eli had been invited. She’d stood with the other mothers when it was time to pick him up, the goodie bag swinging in her hand, chatting as if the day before a man hadn’t changed her status from celibate single mom to fully sexual being. It was as if she’d finally come of age. She suspected she’d been glowing because one of the other women asked her if she’d changed her hairstyle and another wondered aloud where she’d gotten her make-up makeover.
