Page 44 of The Crush of Christmas Past
I tell myself it’s because Graham forgot to bring down the box of ornaments from the attic. Deep down, I know better. In any case, Evangeline will notice soon enough and nudge him to take care of it.
And then the countdown to confronting the past will begin.
Every year, hanging those heirloom ornaments means peeling back old scars. Reopening wounds and bleeding out memories that still hurt like hell.
And every year, I make the same quiet promise:Next Christmas will be easier.
But here I am—another December—and the pain still clings to me. Still aches like I lost them yesterday.
I choke back tears. Clear my throat. Try to expel the bitterness.
Focus on the job.
Patel’s Petals.Valentine’s Day.
Flowers. Love. Romance.
I snort under my breath. How does a designer running from everything those words represent—and the messy, complicated feelings they drag out—create a convincing lie for others to buy?
It doesn’t help that the main source of my frustration is now under the same roof again.
Six years ago, Theo Thorne was my biggest champion.
Now? He’s nothing but a creativity cock block.
I groan, tugging the pillow from under my head and pressing it over my face.
Stop thinking about him.
My brain refuses to cooperate. My free will has a Theo override switch. It doesn’t even give me the courtesy of a warning before catapulting me back to this afternoon in the kitchen.
The Thorne family’s annual cookie contest belongs on a reality TV bake-off. What’s more thrilling than a group of arrogant amateurs racing the clock, elbowing each other for ingredients, and fighting for oven space?
Every year,sugar and flour swirl through the air to create a festive snowstorm. The heat from the stove mixes with the squeeze of too many bodies in too tight a kitchen.
It’s chaos. It’s war.
It’s also kind of perfect.
This time, though, Theo’s presence turns the usual disorder into something far more hazardous.
He’s everywhere.
The solid wall of his chest grazes my shoulder when I spin too fast and collide into him mid–whisk retrieval. His side brushes mine as he reaches into the top cupboard to help me retrieve a mixing bowl, a move that raises the skin along the nape of my neck. Then we both go for the same spoon, and his large, warm hand closes over mine, holding my fingers hostage a beat too long.
Once the cookies are ready for baking, the tension in my body starts to melt.
Surely, by this point, I’ve survived the worst.
I’m in the clear.
Or so I think.
Untilithappens.
As I bend at the waist to slide the tray into the oven, my backside collides with Theo’s front. It’s an utterly accidental touch, but it creates a seismic reaction. I gasp, rushing to shift forward. With the stove in front of me, my options are limited.
Get burned…or getburned.
