Page 15 of The Christmas Cookie Crush

But for some reason, Austin’s the one who’s attracted my anger all these years.

“Thanks,” he says, looking at the paper. “Tell your mom I said thanks. I’ll see if I can make it.”

“I hope you do,” I say, and he jerks his head up, his expression a comical mix of confused and startled.

“You do?” He’s completely incredulous.

My mouth opens and closes a couple times, then I suck in a deep breath, square my shoulders, and nod once. “Sure. The more the merrier. It’s Christmas, right?”

And before he can respond, I walk off.

It’s only after about twenty steps that I realize I forgot my cookie. Stopping, I close my eyes and sigh.

“Dammit,” I mutter quietly as I turn around. Part of me’s tempted to just abandon the cookie, but those cookies are delicious, and I haven’t had one since last week. I’ve been avoiding Austin as much as possible, and so avoiding Give and Cake, one of the few shining treasures of being home. Or it was, anyway. And since I had to go talk to Austin, I figured I might as well treat myself. I really want that cookie, dammit.

Maybe he’ll be busy with another customer and won’t even notice me slip in to snag the cookie I left on the counter. Maybe he’ll be getting a pastry or something and won’t even see me.

But that wisp of hope is quickly dashed when he grins at me, holding out the pastry bag to me. “Forget something?”

Why does he sound like he’s gloating?

And why does it feel almost intimate when I take the bag from him?

Unlike me, he doesn’t feel the need to snatch his hand away as I take it, our fingers brushing.

I was right to be worried about an electric shock, though, because one zings through me at the brief contact. And as much as I’d like to blame it on static, I know it wasn’t that. It felt entirely different and traveled through my body, causing a wave of goosebumps up my neck and making the hair on my arms stand on end. Static shocks just make your finger hurt for a second. This was not that.

Clearing my throat, I nod, unable to form words.

“See you tomorrow,” Austin calls after me as I turn to leave again.

I hold up my hand in a wave of acknowledgement and flee.

CHAPTER NINE

Austin

I don’t seeNora again except in passing the next day. Part of me had hoped that since she came by and got a cookie that she might do it again. According to Grampy, she’s usually a daily customer. But this year—because of me, I’m sure—she’s only bought something twice.

And since she tried to flounce off but had to slink back to retrieve her cookie, I think she’s avoiding me again. I didn’t even make fun of her for it. If I’d known she’d avoid me like this, I might’ve let out one of the quips on the tip of my tongue at the sight of her trying to sneak back to snag the cookie.

Would she come by if I made the special elf cookies Grampy always does? The idea’s stuck with me since she mentioned those cookies, and I even tried morphing one of my sketches of her into a cookie design. It’s a totally different medium, though, and I gave up, deciding to ask Grampy about the cookies instead. He said he usually made them about halfway through ChristmasFest, both as a fun change for the regular customersand also to give Nora something to look forward to. He didn’t have a set schedule, so she’d look for them the whole time, her face lighting up with delight when she came and they were there. He also told me where to find his design sketches and notes on how to make them, so I could do it. But how would she know I’d made them if she doesn’t regularly stop in?

I can’t afford to let a batch of cookies sit around to get stale in hopes she might stop by. So if I’m going to make them, I’ll have to seek her out with them.

Or bring them to the open house.

The thought occurs to me as I’m shoveling snow on Wednesday morning before work. It’s an idea. I’d have to see if someone could cover half my shift either today or tomorrow so I have time to decorate them.

I’m not the best cookie decorator, but I’m not the worst either. I’ve been studying Grampy’s instructions. They’re more complicated than my typical efforts in the past, but I’m the grandson of Dale and Diane Fitzpatrick, aren’t I? My mom won first place in the county fair for her cookie decorating multiple times both when she was a teenager here and since we moved away when I was a kid. It’s in my DNA.

Filled with determination, I finish shoveling as quickly as I can then send off a few texts to see if I can get someone to cover for me this afternoon. I’m holding tomorrow in reserve if I can’t get someone to cover today. I’d rather get the cookies going this afternoon so I have plenty of time to get them right. If I end up tossing a batch, I’ll cover the costs myself so Grampy and Nana aren’t out anything. I want them to be perfect. Fortunately, there are pictures of them posted on the bakery’s social media pages,so I have a reference of the finished product in addition to the color recipes and drawings Grampy wrote down.

As the day progresses and I catch glimpses of Nora, I wonder if maybe my plan is a little overkill. She glances my way a few times, and I swear we lock eyes each time, but she quickly looks away.

But maybe if I manage to make these cookies that she clearly loves, she’ll forgive me for being an asshole as a kid?

Why that should matter to me as much as it does, I can’t really say. But I want her to like me. I think we could have fun if she gave me a chance.

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