Page 81 of 12 Days of Mistletoe

“Let me see. What happened? I only left you a few hours ago.”

A skittering laugh falls from her lips, but she doesn’t hand over her finger. She patters into her kitchen and pulls two mugs from a cupboard. Keeping her right pointer stretched out, careful not to touch her bandaged finger to the mug.

She already has ingredients on the counter.

“I thought you didn’t bake. I was expecting a prepackaged cake.”

“I don’t. At all! Except forthis. I’m pretty great at cakes in a mug. Don’t ask for a full cake or you’ll get a hot mess. But a mini one, inside of a mug, using the magic of the microwave? I’m your girl.”

I swallow—my girl. It’s not my imagination. Bonnie’s cheeks go pink with her words.My girl.Why do those words sound so nice?

She rolls one of her shoulders before measuring and mixing each ingredient right inside each mug. “I made one before you came but didn’t use a hot pad to retrieve it. That’s how I got burnt. She holds up the bandaged pointer I asked to see and nods toward the trash next to the wall not far from me. Inside is glass from what looks like aScooby Doomug and the remnants of a chocolate cake.

“Oh dang. And you lost the Scoob in the process?”

Bonnie smirks, her dark lashes fanning as she peers down at her work. “I did indeed. Sad. It was my favorite mug.”

“That is a shame. I’m grateful you didn’t lose your fingertoo.”

“Oh, I almost did.” She gives me a wide-eyed, teasing glance.

I take two steps closer and lean my back against the counter, close enough to breathe her in. Raspberries… Or is that the sugar from her cake? I clear my senses and say, “I better take a look at it, then.”

She straightens up, her eyes roving over my face. “Okay.” She thrusts her hand out to me. I pick at the bandage, getting a handle on the thing, and she winces.

“Shoot. Sorry. Did I hurt you?”

The most perfect lips known to man quirk with a smile. “Kidding,” she says.

“Ha. Ha,” I mutter, trying to clear my head of those lips. Because we’re here to spend some friend time together. That’s what she wants, right? “You’re hilarious.”

“I try.”

Careful, I unwind the Band-Aid from around her finger. There’s a small blister on the pad of her index finger with a mean red rim around it. Her other fingers are pink, too—more so than normal, maybe, but no other blisters.

And while I have vowed not to kiss anything on or around or within reach of this woman, I very much want to. Our kiss in the hallway with poor Mrs. Bell watching felt urgent and natural all at the same time. Bonnie had said she needed practice. She didn’t. Not even a little bit.

I’m starting to confuse myself. Does she want to be friends? Does she want to kiss me? And is there a chance for both? Can we explore door number three?

“I’d kiss it better,” I say, “but I think it might make it worse.”

Her fingers curl and she pulls her hand back. Her jaw clenches. “Yeah, well, that was a joke.”

Turning back to her work, I study her as she carefully measures and stirs each ingredient into one mug.

“Is chocolate okay?”

“It’s great,” I say.

“Good.” She nibbles on her bottom lip, still looking at the work in front of her. “Because I only know how to make chocolate.” Her head tilts to the side and ponytail strands rain down over her bare, scarred shoulder.

I snicker, and because my curiosity can’t stand it any longer, I add, “How did you get that scar?”

She breaks an egg into one of the mugs and stirs, her brows lowering with my question. She peers at me as if she has no idea what I’m talking about.

Did I promise not to touch her or was that another Elliot? Because it’s instinct. I glide my finger over the soft skin of her shoulder, right over the jagged two-inch scar. Goosebumps rise on her skin, only making me want to touch her again.

“Oh.Thatscar.”

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