In full view of the watchful cameras, Julian and I stood side by side in the kitchen, a plate of cookies on the counter before us. We’d already rolled out the dough, cut the shapes, and baked them in the oven. These were the finished results.
It had been difficult to relax in front of the camera crew, including the producer who would call out random commands like, “Put flour on her nose, Julian!” Or, “Smile at him, Piper!”
At least, cookies now existed. The sweet treat might make the awkwardness of this fake date worth it. I reach for one of the cookies. They should be warm enough now.
“Feed her one of the cookies, Julian,” the producer said.
I froze. Beside me, Julian did too. He glanced at me.
What could I do? We were supposed to be on a date. Feeding each other treats was a common
