When one of the kitchen staff started packing up the desserts, Alexander stopped her.
“The butterscotch cookies,” he said, smiling. “Could you pack some of those up for me to go? They’re delicious, and I’d like to have a few.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I said, feeling a bit flustered.
“You made them for me, didn’t you?” Alexander replied, a playful glint in his eye. “I don’t want them to go to waste.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” the young woman assured him, casting a knowing smile my way before turning to package up the cookies.
“You must be someone special,” my mother said teasingly. “I can’t remember the last time Ella cooked.”
“It hasn’t been that long,” I replied, trying to defend myself.
“It’s been at least a few years,” my father chimed in.
“There’s n
