Page 61 of 12 Days of Mistletoe

Elliot opensthe door and looks at me like I’m a new puppy, all wrapped up for Christmas.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.” I study his face. “You look… weird.”

“Thanks.” He snickers and shakes his head. “I’m just happy to see you.”

“Well, I’m not so happy. Baking? Really?” I wrinkle my nose—because I am officially a child not getting her way.

“Yeah. Sorry about that. The Eaton’s have a lot of Christmasy get-togethers.”

“It’s tradition,” May says just behind him. “You’ll love it, Bonnie. Now, shall we get down to that practice kiss before we head out?”

Our time at May’s went way too quick. Sure, she made mepractice kissher grandson before theliveshow at Marlene’s. But at least I could breathe at May’s.

The house before me is terrifying. Elliot is beside me, May behind me, Noel at my feet. And the house—the scary, scary house, well, it’s right in front of us. It’s Marlene’s house. It’s decorated with lights, plastic reindeer on the roof, and a life-sized nativity on the lawn, as in death by Christmas, and inside waits women, aprons, raw ingredients, and expectations I will not be able to meet.

“It’s going to be okay.” Elliot rests a hand on my back.

“But I don’t bake. I don’t know how.” And except for the occasional mini cake inside of a mug, the kind that can’t go wrong, my words are fact.

“How about a little more hand-holding?” May sings behind us.

“It’ll be okay. They’ll show you. You’re smart. No big deal.” Elliot’s hand slips down to mine and he cups my hand in his. Warmth penetrates from his palm into my skin and bones, making me feel just a little stronger.

Still, my brows knit. I am smart, but not baking smart. This isnothow I want to be judged in life—not by my horrific baking. Noel is close to my side, her head bobbing up into the fold of mine and Elliot’s hands. See, a sign of distress. She gets it, so why doesn’t Elliot and his big, crazy family get it? “What do the men do? You’resmart. Are you baking?” I ask because this feels like a valid question. If I have to suffer, then so does he.

Elliot clears his throat and skirts my eyes as if he doesn’t want to answer me. This only transforms my stare into a glare. I tilt my head to make certain he sees me. I raise my brows, asking again with my silence. I know he heard the question.

He opens those sweet, minty lips back up and says, “We… ah, well… we watch… football.”

“While the women have to bake?” My heart pounds. And I am offended for liberated women who hate baking everywhere around the world.

“Yeah.”

“Yoo-hoo! Thread those fingers, please,” May instructs, not paying attention to anything we say to the other.

I ignore her, though I am aware that obedient Elliot follows her instructions right away. “Well, I don’t want to bake,” I say. “I want to watch football.”

“You can’t watch football, dear, you have to bake with the women,” May tells me—okay, so maybe she was listening.

I swallow and glance back at Elliot’s grandmother. “No offense, May, because I can honestly say you’re super cool and we are friends?—”

“Iamsuper cool,” May says, a sweet twinkle in her blue eyes.

“Yes, but that plan sucks. This is not the 1950s?—”

“Oh, great years,” May says. “Sock hops, poodle skirts, drive-in?—”

“What about women’s lib, May?” I turn halfway around, keeping Elliot’s hand in mine but making sure I can see May better. She seems like the kind of woman who’d be all for strong women. So, where’s my freedom from the kitchen?

“I am all for women’s lib.” She gives me a big thumbs-up. “Girl power, one hundred percent. This has nothing to do with women’s lib.”

“Yes.” I puff out a breath and point at her. “Girl.Power. And—thisgirldoesn’t bake.”

Elliot eyes his Gran. “She doesn’t have to bake. Nowhere in our deal do we talk about baking. She can watch football.”

“Fine.” May wilts, huffing out a breath. Sheglances from Elliot to me, and then the corner of her mouth perks up mischievously. “As long as you sit on Elliot’s lap.”

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