Page 25 of Trapped with the Ice Queen

Alex wiped her hands on the apron and walked around the counter. Standing behind Vivienne, she reached around to adjust her grip on the knife. The proximity was unavoidable, and Alex felt a flicker of warmth that had nothing to do with the stove.

"Like this," she murmured, guiding Vivienne’s hand into position.

Vivienne stilled, her breath catching for the briefest moment. Then she nodded, her voice soft. "Got it."

Satisfied, Alex stepped back, reclaiming her place by the dough. She began to knead again, stealing occasional glances as Vivienne awkwardly sliced a carrot. The cuts were uneven, but there was a quiet determination in the way she worked, her jaw set with concentration.

“You’re doing fine,” Alex offered, surprising even herself with the gentleencouragement.

Vivienne’s lips quirked in a small, appreciative smile. “High praise coming from you.”

Alex snorted. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

The banter felt easy, almost natural, as they settled into a rhythm. Vivienne continued her slow progress with the vegetables, while Alex worked the dough until it was smooth and pliable. She set it aside to rise, dusting her hands clean as she leaned against the counter to watch Vivienne’s progress.

Alex chuckled, shaking her head. “You’re trying. That counts for something.”

Vivienne set the knife down and turned to face Alex, leaning against the counter. “We didn’t exactly do a lot of cooking in my family. Everything was catered, including on Christmas. Perfectly plated, perfectly timed—no mess, no effort.”

“That doesn’t sound very festive.”

Vivienne shrugged, a shadow crossing her features. “It wasn’t. Not really. Christmas was more of a performance than a celebration. My mother would plan every detail months in advance. Every table setting, every course, every ornament.” She paused, hergaze distant. “It looked like something out of a magazine. It was beautiful, decadent, but it always felt hollow.”

Alex studied her, noting the tightness in Vivienne’s posture, the way her fingers gripped the edge of the counter. It was the first time Vivienne had shared something so personal, and Alex felt an unexpected ache in her chest.

“That sounds exhausting, living up to those expectations,” Alex said quietly.

Vivienne nodded, her smile faint and wistful. “It was. I used to wish we could just have one messy, chaotic Christmas, you know? Something real.”

Alex hesitated before replying, the vulnerability in Vivienne’s words tugging at something deep inside her. “My parents were teachers, so my older brother and I didn’t have much when we were growing up,” she began, her voice steady but low. “Christmas was…simple. Homemade decorations, handmade gifts, whatever food we could scrape together, and the same battered string of lights my parents had since before I was born. But it felt like Christmas, you know? Cozy. Warm.”

Vivienne’s gaze softened, her head tilting slightly as she listened. “That sounds wonderful.”

Alex shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise. “It was enough. They made it enough.”

They fell into a brief silence, the only sounds the crackle of the fire and the quiet scrape of Vivienne’s knife against the cutting board. Alex turned back to her work, shaping the dough into rolls with methodical precision.

“Do you still do any of those things?” Vivienne asked after a while.

Alex paused, her hands stilling. “Not really. My mom passed away from breast cancer, and after that, I didn’t see much point. Christmas just became another day for us.”

“I’m so sorry,” Vivienne said, looking up at Alex.

Alex shifted, feeling the heat of Vivienne’s eyes, and stared at the dough to avoid eye contact. “It was a long time ago.”

Silence hung in the air, then Vivienne spoke. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be. Just another day, I mean.”

The words hung between them,unspoken possibilities blooming in the quiet. Alex didn’t respond, unsure how to process the strange mixture of hope and hesitation that Vivienne’s suggestion stirred in her.

Instead, she reached for the pan and began placing the rolls onto it in neat rows. Vivienne set the knife down, wiping her hands on a towel before stepping closer.

“Need help?” she asked.

Alex raised an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “You sure you want to risk it? Dough isn’t as forgiving as carrots.”

Vivienne rolled her eyes, but her smile was warm. “You might be surprised what I can handle.”

Their fingers brushed as Vivienne reached for a piece of dough, and Alex felt her breath catch in her throat. She busied herself with the rolls, trying to ignore the way her pulse quickened at the brief contact.

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