Page 162 of A Very Merry Enemy
“Lucas, what are you?—”
I spin her around right there in our station, making her laugh. The crowd goes absolutely wild as we dance to “Jingle Bell Rock.”
“Keep it up and they’re going to think we’re showing off,” she says with a laugh.
“Babe, we are showing off. Who else can bake a masterpiece and dance like this?” I dip her dramatically and she squeals. “Might as well own it.”
When I pull her back up, she’s breathless as I spin her around. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you still love it,” I mutter.
“I really do.”
“This song is only three minutes; take the break with me,” I tell her.
I notice Dominic watching us from the judging table as we continue to dance. His expression has changed and his jaw is set. He’s watched us laughing, dancing, and being completely ourselves, and it’s eating him alive.
Good.
When the last guitar strum of the song plays out, she pulls away. “I needed that.”
“I know,” I say.
“Ice cream time,” Holiday says, pulling out our ingredients.
“Heavy cream, whole milk, sugar, vanilla bean, and a pinch of salt. That’s it. Simple and perfect.”
She measures everything while I get the ice cream maker ready. We’ve tested this recipe a dozen times at home. It’s foolproof.
She scrapes vanilla beans into the mixture, and I can’t help but admire her as she works. Holiday makes it look easy. While she’s concentrating, the confidence in her movements is undeniable.
Thisis what she was meant to do. Create. Bake. Bring joy to people through food.
We mix everything together and pour it into the ice cream maker. The machine hums to life, and Holiday sets a timer.
“Thirty minutes,” she says. “Then we assemble and we’re done.”
“We’re crushing this,” I tell her.
“I’m so happy to be doing this with you,” she confesses.
“Fuck, me too, Peaches.”
I glance down at the clock, knowing we have plenty of time. We’re right on schedule.
That’s when I see Dominic stand from the judging table and he’s heading straight toward us.
“Incoming,” I mutter to Holiday.
She follows my gaze, and her shoulders tense, but she doesn’t back down. She stands up straighter, lifting her chin.
Dominic stops in front of our table, looking at our setup. His eyes scan our ingredients, our timing sheet, and our ice cream maker churning away.
“Impressive,” he says. His accent seems thicker when he’s agitated. “You’re ahead of everyone else.”
“Aren’t I usually?” Holiday asks.
His eyes finally meet hers. “You always were talented. I didn’t give you enough credit.”
