I step over the threshold, taking in her home. It’s tidy but lived in. Blankets draped over couches, books and woodworking magazines stacked haphazardly across the coffee table, shoes and boots flung carelessly on a rug by the door. But there are plenty of what I’m figuring out are touches of Shelby’s craft as well. There’s a tiny Regency-era rolltop desk with lots of pocket drawers tucked in an alcove near a window. A low-lying blue sideboard behind her couch, painted in a Victorian style with whimsical wildflowers in varying shades of green and yellow. And the gleaming wide-planked oak floors, likely original to the house, though they look brand new.

“It’s incredible,” I say. “Feels like you in here.”

Her cheeks take on a happy pink glow and something squeezes in my chest at the knowledge that my praise still means something to her. She looks amazing in a pair of loose-fitting denim overalls and a slim, striped cardigan. Her hair is swinging in a high ponytail. The entire look shouldn’t be as sexy as it is. She probably bought it all at that feed store Lorelai was teasing her about.

“Thanks. This way. I’m just wrapping up some cookies to take to your mom.”

“I should probably test one out first. You know. To make sure she’ll like them. She’s picky.”

“Oh, is she?” Shelby asks, playing along as she leads me into the kitchen. “Well, in that case, you may have one.” She pulls out another Tupperware. “From your own stack, though.”

“You made me cookies, too?”

She blushes again. “Don’t tell my dad. I usually send him home with my spares. I like to bake cookies,” she explains, “but I can’t eat them all by myself.”

I crack open the container immediately, pulling out two. They’re still warm. I take a bite and my eyes slip shut in ecstasy. “Holy shit, Springfield, these are good. My mom’s going to adopt you.”

She laughs, snapping the lid shut on the second container. “You’re too easy to impress. But that’s good to know. Baking is how I relieve stress, but I don’t think chocolate-chip cookies are in my Hollywood-approved diet. You’ll be helping me out if you take them off my hands.”

I make a face, my mouth too full with a third cookie to say what I want, and she waves me off, seemingly unbothered. “Enough. I don’t want to think about him. Let’s go see your mom.”

As I’m learning with most things between Shelby and me, the drive is comfortable. The years somehow melt away when we’re together. It’s sunny and almost warm this morning, definitely closing in on spring. Shelby’s eyes are hidden behind a pair of aviators, and she’s looking irresistibly cute in my passenger seat, cookies for my mom resting in her lap.