Page 20 of The Christmas Cookie Crush

“Shit,” I mutter, and she lets out a snort. “No,” I protest. “Hang on.” I fumble with the lid, but Sheila sealed it shut with one of the stickers with the Give and Cake logo on it, and it won’t fucking open.

Then the box starts to tip, but Nora’s reflexes are fantastic. Her hands go under the box, catching and balancing it, her fingers overlaying mine, and that same electric pulse I felt when our fingers brushed the other day shoots through me again.

Jesus. I can’t?—

She clears her throat, and my eyes jump to hers. They’re wide, a little startled, and I’m not sure if it’s about almost dropping thebox or how close together we’re standing or if she felt that jolt of electricity too. Then my gaze lands on her plump, parted lips.

But I can’t focus there. Shit.

Clearing my throat, I nod at the box. “Sorry. I forgot Sheila sealed the box with a sticker. They’re cookies. Elf cookies.” I feel like a stammering idiot. “Like the kind you said Grampy made.”

Her eyes widen. “He made me cookies? Even after his surgery?” The wonder in her voice fills me with pride. And hope.

I shake my head. “No. He’s not allowed in the kitchen long enough to decorate cookies, though he’s been complaining about that for at least the last week, saying he should be able to help do something. But no. I made these. Well, I made the cookies, anyway. And I decorated some of them. Sheila helped too, since she’s better at it.”

Her brows pinch together, and I’m worried she’s going to start glaring at me like she normally does. “Wait.” She carefully peels the sticker off the box and opens the lid, staring into the box for long enough that I’m worried something happened on the way here and they’re all mangled. But when I peek around the edge of the lid, I see they’re all exactly as they should be. “You made me cookies?” The question is more breath than sound. She searches my face, her brows still wrinkled in confusion. “But why?” Then her eyes narrow like I’ve been expecting. “What did you do to them?”

Closing my eyes, I shake my head and chuckle. “Nothing. I swear.” Meeting her eyes again, I try to infuse every ounce of sincerity I can muster into my voice. “You seemed so sad about not getting the cookies this year. I just …” I shrug. “I wantedto brighten your season. And try again at the peace offering. I thought …” Another shrug. “I thought you’d like them.”

She points into the box. “You didn’t lace them with too much lemon or something?”

Chuckling, I shake my head. “No. I swear. You can call Sheila if you don’t believe me.”

Eyes still narrowed, she picks up a cookie, breaks off a piece, and holds it out to me. “Or you can eat a bite and prove to me that it’s safe.”

I hold her stare for a moment, wondering what she sees in my face. Sincerity? Amusement? Some mix of both? Because that’s what I’m feeling right now.

I tip my head forward, parting my lips. She holds the cookie to my mouth, and somehow what seemed mostly playful and silly—with a hint of suspicion on her part, of course—just a second ago somehow turns heated and intimate. I’m painfully aware of the people surrounding us, some of whom are watching this with rapt attention. Her siblings, I think, but a couple other people I don’t recognize too.

The sugar cookie is perfect—buttery, sweet, the texture just right. Everything Grampy’s sugar cookie recipe is known for.

As I chew and swallow, I make a big show of enjoying the bite, though I don’t have to try too hard. Give and Cake’s cookies are delicious. “It’s perfect,” I tell Nora after I swallow.

Her eyes still narrowed, though there’s a glimmer of amusement there now. “You’re not just faking it to get me to try one?”

I shrug. “No. But if you don’t trust me, you could ask someone else to have a bit too. Like your friend there.” I nod to the womanstanding next to her wearing a Christmas sweater bearing cartoon reindeer faces, each one with a sparkly red pompom for a nose. Not one of her siblings, because who knows if she’d trust them not to prank her too.

“Oh, yes, please,” says the woman, stepping forward. “I remember these cookies from last year. They’re so good. I’ll take a whole one, not just a bite.”

“Lydia, no!” Nora protests. “I know they look like the ones we had last year, but these are fromhim. Austin. He’s not trustworthy.”

“Austin!” cries Dylan. “I didn’t realize you were here! I haven’t seen you in ages! What’s going on? What’s with the cookies?” Stepping forward, he wraps an arm around the woman Nora called Lydia.

“He made cookies for Nora,” Lydia tells him. “Because his grandpa isn’t running the shop this year for some reason.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Dylan says. “Mom told me about that. How’s that going, man? Did Nora special order the cookies that look like her?” He rolls his eyes. “She’d always go gah-gah over those. Kinda silly if you ask me.”

“No one asked you,” Nora spits, finally taking the box from my hands. Then she looks at me. “Thank you, Austin. It was very kind of you to bring these tonight.”

“Why does Nora think they’ll taste bad?” Lydia loud-whispers to Dylan. “She made him eat one to prove they’re good, but she still doesn’t believe him, I don’t think.”

Dylan starts laughing, and Nora’s cheeks turn pink.

Shit. I wasn’t trying to embarrass her. Why does everything I try go spectacularly wrong? First the cranberry scone I tried to give her. Then the joke with the Warheads. Then trying to make these damn cookies, and now this?

Gritting my teeth, I force a chuckle. “Oh, it’s an old joke between the two of us.”

Nora’s giving me her narrow-eyed glare again. “Ha. Yeah. It’s a joke.” She closes the lid of the box and steps away, slipping through the crowd. I want to follow her, but I can’t, not without being rude to Dylan and Lydia.

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