Page 36 of A Very Merry Enemy
I sit in my truck for another five minutes, just to make a point.
My phone buzzes, and it’s Holiday, which is a surprise. I unblocked her number a few days ago so we could chat about when we’d bake.
Holiday
Hurry up.
Lucas
On my way. Relax.
Holiday
You’re purposely wastingmy time.
Lucas
And?
I pocket my phone and climb out. The November air is cold enough that my breath fogs. Christmas lights twinkle on the trees across the lot, and somewhere by the gift shop, Bing Crosby croons from the outdoor speakers.
I push open the bakery door. The bell jingles, and Holiday looks up from the kitchen in the back where she’s arranging ingredients.
She’s wearing jeans and an old Merryville High sweatshirt, the same one from our senior year. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, no makeup. She’s even tied her apron the same way she always did—loose knot at the back, strings wrapped tightly around her waist. I watched her tie that knot a thousand times when we worked together at the county fair booth. When she’d lean against me while we waited for the next customer, smelling like cinnamon and sugar.
The memory hits me like a physical blow.
I hate that seeing her like this makes something tighten in my chest.
“You’re disrespectfully late,” she says.
“Great. That’s the level I was hoping for.” I shrug off my jacket and toss it on a stool. “Let’s get this over with.”
Her eyes roll. “Wow. Love the attitude.”
“You want me to pretend I’m happy to be here?” I give her a sarcastic smile, then move to the counter, deliberately invading her space.
I scan the ingredients she’s laid out. Flour, sugar, butter, eggs, vanilla extract, and chocolate chips. Basic. Safe.
“Chocolate chip cookies?”
“I was thinking we’d start with something classic. Test our combined skills on somethingsimple?—”
“I think the fuck not.”
She blinks. “Excuse me?”
“We’re not doing a boring chocolate chip cookie. We don’t have time to waste, Holiday. Let’s start with something that stands out and build from there.” I lean against the counter. “You’ve been gone a long time.”
Her eyes flash. “I competed professionally in Paris. I think I know what wins baking competitions worldwide.”
“This isn’t some fancy European competition where judges care about technique and presentation.” I cross my arms. “This is Merryville. Not sure you can relate.”
Her face goes white, then red. “Don’t you dare.”
“Want to talk about the engagement you couldn’t commit to? Seems relevant. Just proves my point that you have commitment issues.”
“You’re an asshole.”
