Page 74 of A Very Merry Enemy
The thought makes me want to put my fist through a wall, but I can’t tell her I know. I think that would make everything worse, considering she’s still working through the end of that relationship. I know Holiday and know she pulls away when things get too awkward. That’s the last thing either of us needs right now when we’ve barely started to find our way back to something I’ve tried to forget.
I’ll watch and protect her. If anyone tries to get close enough to hurt her again, they’ll have to go through me first.
This morning, when that asshole started yelling at her in the bakery, I dropped the tree I was carrying and stormed through that door in seconds. I could hear him cursing in front of kids and families.
Not sure I’ll ever forget the look on his face when I dragged him outside and explained who the fuck I was. I banned himfrom the property. The look on Holiday’s face made everything worth it.
Now she’s standing in my kitchen with her hands tucked into her hoodie pocket, studying the ingredients like she’s doing calculations in her head. Her hair is up in that messy bun I like, but it’s intentional, not a chaotic disaster. This is exactly how I like to see her, relaxed and being herself. Not trying to impress. She showered before coming over, and the smell of her soap makes me want to lean in closer every time she moves past me.
“Okay,” she finally says. “So, we tried other recipes before, and they were good, but I think we can do better.”
“You always think you can do better.”
“I usually can,” she says and pauses. “But not with everything.”
“You’re damn right about that,” I say, reading between the lines.
It does something to my chest that I’m not ready to feel. I don’t say anything else, because it’s best if I don’t. Right now, Holiday needs a friend, someone to keep her ass honest and not let her forget who the hell she is.
She continues. “Hmm. What if we tried something like a shortbread with a chocolate fudge and pecan top? A decadent cookie bar.”
I lean against the counter. “Sounds complicated.”
“It’s not. It’ll just take multiple steps that will need to be timed perfectly. It’s also layered, which is impressive, and possible in three hours.” She moves to the sink to wash her hands. “A wise person once told me to trust the process.”
I used to tell her that all the time.
She pauses and looks over her shoulder at me. Her baby blues catch the light from the overhead, and they’re shining a little brighter than they were when she arrived.
“The good ole days,” I say, reminiscing. “When my biggest concern was getting ungrounded so I could hang out with youat the fair.”
“I’d trade anything to go back.” Something vulnerable flashes in her expression and it makes me want to move to her. It takes all my effort to stay right where I am.
If I had a time machine, I’d do things differently, that’s for damn sure.
“Well.” Holiday dries her hands on a dish towel and quickly wipes down the counter. I grab two mixing bowls and measuring cups.
“Let’s start with the shortbread dough,” Holiday says, preheating the oven.
She calls out directions so I can follow along. I’m shocked when she says it’s only butter, sugar, and flour with salt.
“Gradually add the flour. Don’t dump it all in at once,” she instructs. “We’re not going to overwork the dough. Got it?”
“Understood,” I say, knowing how good a teacher she is. I almost feel sorry for her former employees, because I know how hard it is to lose her. When it looks crumbly like hers, I stop mixing.
Holiday takes the dough out of her bowl and plops it on the counter. We stand side by side, combining our mixtures into one big ball. I can’t help but watch her hands work it.
“Rolling pin?” she asks.
I bend down on one knee and reach to the back of the cabinet directly below me. I look up at her, and she swallows hard. The air crackles with the knowledge that I would’ve married her. I let the moment grow uncomfortable for her because she needs to sit in that feeling.
I slowly stand and hand it to her.
“We’re going to flatten it out,” she says. “I need two baking pans. The largest ones you have.”
The soft sound of our breaths mixing as we make magic in the kitchen is something I haven’t heard in a long time. It reminds me of being seventeen and having sleepovers at Mawmaw’s so we could bake cookies atmidnight. Holiday would invent recipes. Sometimes they’d turn out great, other times they wouldn’t. It was trial-and-error baking, something we bonded over.
“So,” I say as she places the sweet dough in the bottom of two pans. “Three thousand cookies in three hours today.”
