Page 2 of Unwrapped

“You make a damn good cookie.” Tessa laughs. “I’m just the business bitch.” I’m only half listening, my eyes still closed as I savor the final crumbs of the cookie.

“You sure you don’t need a moment alone with that?” she asks, laughter in her voice.

“I was having one, but you ruined it,” I say, rubbing my hands against my apron. “You know I like to savor the first test bite of every batch—it’s how I can tell if any of the ratios are off.”

“So scientific,” Tessa mocks playfully.

“I am, in fact, a scientist,” I remind her, “and baking is chemistry.”

“For now,” she says, her tone turning more serious. “Soon, your only titles will finally be baker and business owner.” She smiles.

“Crazy to think, huh?”

I glance around my kitchen, the same one we’ve been baking out of for the last five years while I worked in research and Tessa jumped from one marketing job to another, continuing to climbthe ladder but always with our bakery dream in mind. That pang of nostalgia tightens my throat, making it grow thick with emotion.

“Hey,” Tessa says, her voice softer as if she’s trying to pull me out of my own head. “Remember that time.” She starts to laugh. “That time that you mel—” Her laughter keeps interrupting her. “Melted the spatula to the cookie sheet because—” She’s laughing so hard she can’t get through the story, and it’s starting to spread to me.

“It was three a.m.!” I say through tears as we both relive the memory of staying up until the most unholy of hours to get a few more final batches of cookies done for the holidays. We learned the hard way that year that you cannot, in fact, design, bake, cool, decorate, and package fifty dozen cookies in a weekend with only two people—unless you want to end up so sleep-deprived you almost burn your apartment building down.

“Oh God.” I clutch my stomach, a cramp starting to form from laughing so hard. “And we can’t forget that one and only time we rented a commercial kitchen place and somehow managed to mangle the mixer arm.”

I cringe at the memory of the $600 mistake that night cost us. Yet another sobering reality that we can’t afford to be making those kinds of mistakes anymore, not with so much riding on our back.

“You know what I love thinking about?” She pushes away from the couch, walking over to the island. “Watching everyone’s reaction the first time they bite into one of your cookies.” She grabs a spatula and begins to remove the fresh cookies, placing them onto cooling racks. “Not just because they’re delicious, always with the perfect amount of softness to the inside but because you put your heart and soul into each recipe and it shows.”

The silence hangs between us for a moment, a tear teetering on the rim of my eye.

“Thank you.” I laugh through the sentiment, shaking my head and wiping away the tear that eventually tumbles down my cheek. “I don’t know why I’m crying over it.”

“Because this is huge; we’re about to change our lives.”

We reminisce even more about the nights in our tiny, cramped studio apartment after college. How a huge weekend for us that first year was making enough money to buy beer and a bottle of vodka if we were lucky.

But eventually, the conversation drifts to the familiar, a topic I’ve tried to avoid for years—men, or more specifically, the lack of them in our lives.

Tessa tosses her oven mitts onto the counter, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning her hip against the counter.

“Ivy, we need dates. I’m serious. We’re like two steps away from adopting cats and talking to them about our feelings.”

I snort. “There’s nothing wrong with cats. You love cats. You had a cat until last year, actually. Rest in peace, Meatball,” I say softly. Tessa smiles at the mention of her eighteen-year-old cat—a tender topic to this date.

“Yeah, but there’s something wrong with spending another holiday season alone, right?”

I shrug, focusing on the dough in front of me. “Hardly seems like the time to jump into trying to find a relationship when we’re opening a business.”

The truth is, I’ve never really had the patience for dating, and the idea of putting myself out there is terrifying. Besides, I’ve always convinced myself that guys like Asher Mercer—the smooth-talking, always-smiling CEO of Mercer Enterprises, the center of my secret little high school crush I’ve continued to harbor—don’t go for girls like me.

“I’m not saying we need to find Prince Charming by New Year’s, just a guy who doesn’t make you want to crawl out of your skin or gnaw your own arm off trying to get out of the date.”

“Wow,” I say dryly, “the bar is literally in hell.”

“I’m just saying we deserve to have some fun is all. We’ve been busting our asses for years and it wouldn’t kill either of us to get laid more than twice a year.”

“I can agree to that.” I knead the dough a little harder, my tension ratcheted up to eleven.

Tessa suddenly perks up, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Speaking of dates, I bet you haven’t forgotten about Asher Mercer.”

I freeze, my cheeks burning as I try to keep my expression neutral. “What? Why would I remember him?”

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