Page 22 of The Christmas Cookie Crush

“Right. Yes. And we will. But I need help, and I need it from you. Not one of my siblings.” I cut my hand through the air to emphasize that last sentence. “They can’t be trusted.”

“Oh?” She crosses her arms and looks me over. “Why’s that?”

I make an incoherent noise. “Just … because! It’s hard to explain.” Reaching for the box, I flip open the lid, marveling at how good these cookies look. They’re perfect.

Picking up the one I broke a piece off of and fed to Austin—I suppress an involuntary shiver at the memory of his plush lips brushing my fingertips—I break off another piece and offer it to Olivia. “I need you to try this cookie.”

She looks from the cookie to me before taking a slow step forward and holding out her hand. I place the chunk of cookie in her palm, and she picks it up with her other hand, eyeing me warily. “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing. I think. I mean, I’m pretty sure. But that’s why I need you to taste it. To be certain.”

Her eyes widen in alarm. “That’s not at all reassuring, Nora. What do you think would be wrong with it?”

“I’m afraid he made it extra sour. It’s kind of a … joke? I guess. Of sorts. A prank, really. With sour candy. It’s a long story. He ate apiece and didn’t react, but I don’t know if he’s just really good at suppressing his reactions in an attempt to convince me it’s fine just to make it funnier when I eat them later or something. And I love these cookies. His grandpa designed them just for me. And if he’s ruined them …” My fists clench at the thought, my molars grinding together. It’s one thing to give me Warheads as a prank. It’s something entirely different to ruin my cookies.

Still looking wary, Olivia sniffs the cookie. “It smells normal.” I nod. She takes a teeny tiny bite, then her face lights up and she pops the rest into her mouth. “It’s delicious,” she says as she chews. “Not sour at all. Eat and enjoy.”

I look down at the broken cookie sitting on top, picking it up gingerly and taking a small, tentative bite. But Olivia’s right. Not that I doubted her, I just … doubted Austin so much that I couldn’t believe he wouldn’t somehow mess with these cookies.

“Is that all you needed?” Olivia asks.

Nodding, I sink to the bed, still holding half a cookie in my hand. “Yes,” I croak, my mind whirring. What does this mean? Why did he make these? What’s his endgame? “Thanks, Olivia.”

She pauses in the doorway, biting her lip as she looks at me. “Are you okay? I feel like I’m missing something here.”

Forcing a smile, I wave her off. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just … confused. But you can go back to the party. I’m sure Ty’ll barge in here in a second looking for you. Do me a favor and stave him off before he comes in with a brother lecture?”

Her lips press together as she studies me for another second, but then she nods and leaves, closing the door behind her with a quiet click.

I sit in silence for a moment, trying to piece together my thoughts. The problem is, I only have questions and no answers. And I’m not sure I can get the answers, either. If I ask him directly, will he give me straight answers? And if he does, will I even believe him?

I guess that’s what it boils down to—can Austin be trusted?

Our history points to no. But that was like ten years ago. I don’t play ponies with my friends anymore, so it’s theoretically possible that Austin’s grown out of being a jerk.

Dylan’s still kind of a jerk, though, and he’s grown up too. But I suppose that only proves that some peopledon’toutgrow being a jerk, not that Austin is one of those people.

He did have someone give me Warheads, though.

Which he later apologized for.

And he did try to give me a pastry that one day—which I rejected—and now these cookies …

More and more it looks likeImight be the jerk.

Sighing heavily, I look down at the half cookie I’m still holding and take a bite. Buttery sweetness explodes on my tongue, and I let out an involuntary moan. God, I’ve missed these cookies. Austin seems to have inherited his grandfather’s talent for baking. Or at least he’s able to follow a recipe. Because these are as delicious as his grandfather’s.

After I finish the cookie, I stand and brush off my hands, then close the box. These cookies are just for me, and aside from the bites I gave to Austin and Olivia for test purposes, I don’t plan on sharing them with anyone.

With one more deep breath, I do my best to push aside the swirling questions—most importantly,whydid he make me cookies?—and head back to the party. But when I step into the hall and pull my door closed behind me, I stop short.

Austin’s standing in the opening to the hallway, his hands in his jeans pockets, his burgundy button-down open at the collar. I have to admit, he looks good like this. He’s cute in his Give and Cake apron, but he clearly put some effort into his appearance today with his sleeves cuffed just so, his shock of dark hair combed—though I think I prefer it when it’s a little more messy and casual—his face freshly shaved. Like he went home and showered before coming over.

When did he even make the cookies? Because he’s been working pretty much every day that I have, and I’ve worked nearly every day since I got home. Sure, a few were short shifts or half days, but between covering call outs and my own normal schedule, I’ve been busy.

I clear my throat, feeling uncertain, which is not a feeling I’m used to or find enjoyable. I don’t typically have difficulty talking to guys. I know how to flirt or be friendly or whatever the situation calls for.

But with Austin …

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