Page 16 of The Christmas Cookie Crush

Sure, we’re both slammed for the next two weeks so there’s not a whole lot of time for fun, but hopefully she’ll be in town for at least another week or two after Christmas. Even if she’s attending college somewhere else, school won’t start until after New Year’s, so that’s a solid week where she’ll likely be bored after the nonstop activity of ChristmasFest.

Right?

That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway.

Fortunately, Mellie, one of our seasonal part-timers, was thrilled to get a few extra hours. “Thanks for texting me,” she says as she slips into the booth with me. “I’m happy for the extra hours. Gotta pay off those credit cards after Christmas!”

I give her a weak chuckle as I gather my coat from behind the closet-like space in the back. “Glad you’re available. If I ever need someone else, I’ll be sure to text you first.”

She gives me a thumbs up, then turns to the customer waiting to be served, and I slip through the crowds. Even though I’mfeeling the need to hurry to the main bakery, I take the long way out and go past the North Pole.

Nora’s there taking photos of a baby in Santa’s lap. She’s bent over at the waist, jiggling a stuffed toy in the baby’s direction, and the sight of her round ass has my mouth watering.

God, I’m an asshole. Because yeah, she’s hot. And if I’m honest with myself, that’s the real reason I want her to like me.

I want to take her out. On a date. I’m not sure what the dating options are around here at this time of year. If we didn’t both work at ChristmasFest, that might be a fun option, but that’s definitely out.

There’s always the dead simple drinks or coffee options. Or even dinner. I’d be happy with that, but I’m not sure she’d consent to that long of a date with me, even if the cookies do their job.

Mouth set in a firm line, I weave my way to the exit. If I want to have any hope of a chance, I have to get these cookies perfect.

The cookies are a disaster.

When I get to the bakery, Sheila gives me a questioning look, but when I explain what I’m doing here, she grins really big. “You’re just like your grandpa,” she says while showing me where everything is in the kitchen.

“Here are the sugar cookies ready to be frosted for tomorrow,” Sheila says. “But if you use them, you better make more to replace them. Otherwise, we’ll run out.”

Taking her advice, I start a batch to replace what I use. I figure half of the already-made batch will be practice, leaving me with half a batch of good ones.

But I’m wrong. So, so wrong.

When the cookies I mix up go into the oven, I pull out the elf blanks that were made this morning to get started.

The first few are pretty rough, but that isn’t much of a surprise. But as I near the end of the batch that was made this morning, they’re somehow getting worse. How is that even possible?

The only saving grace is that the bakery is as busy as the kiosk at ChristmasFest, so no one’s been back to check on me since the cookies went in the oven.

I survey the carnage around me, taking stock. There’s flour everywhere. Deformed looking elf cookies littering every available surface.

Groaning aloud, I run my palms over my face. When I pull my hands down, I see I had green frosting on my right hand, which I’m sure is smeared down my face now too. “Great,” I mutter. “Just fucking amazing.”

Grabbing a towel, I rub it all over my face, pulling it away to look at it and finding more than just green smeared there. Which means I’ve had frosting on my face for a while, probably.

What the fuck am I gonna do?

This was my grand plan, and I’m officially out of the cookies that were made this morning. Looking around, I see if maybe I’m being too hard on myself. Maybe one or two are worth giving to Nora.

But no. If I give her these, she’ll either laugh at me, which would be well deserved, or be offended because she’ll thinkIthink she looks like these cookies with their crooked eyes, blobby noses, or melting faces on the ones I let sit too close to the ovens.

“Fucking hell.”

Sighing, I finish washing the equipment I was planning on washing at the end of the night. But it’ll give the batch of cookies I already made more time to cool while I make another batch to replace the replacement batch.

For something that I expected to be fairly easy, this is taking a long time and costing me a lot of money.

I’m in the middle of drying the mixer bowl when Sheila pushes through the door to the kitchen. She stops in her tracks, her face a mask of shock. “Oh,” is all she says as she surveys my handiwork.

Then she clears her throat and takes me in, covering her mouth with her hand to stifle a laugh. “Oh, honey. You’re a sweetheart, but I think you might be in over your head.” She steps farther inside, walking slowly around the room to look at my cookies.

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