Page 76 of A Very Merry Enemy
My mouth falls open. “You’re so talented.”
“Oh, stop,” she says, tucking her lips into her mouth. “You give me too much credit.”
I stand to the side, watching Holiday make the fudge. A strand of hair has escaped her bun and curls against her neck. I want to reach out and tuck the loose strands behind her ear. But then again, I’ve wanted a lot of things when it comes to Holiday.
She works with absolute confidence as she pours pecans into the mixture, then scoops it on top of the shortbread. She does a swirl design on the top that makes it look fancy.
Seconds later, she’s reorganizing my fridge so she can place it inside to cool the fudge topping. Once she shuts the doors, she turns to me. “Now we wait an hour.”
“Impressive,” I tell her.
“Can we sit by the fire?” she asks, swiping her wineglass from the counter and filling it.
“Of course.” I fill my glass, too, then place my hand on her lower back before immediately pulling away. Some habits die hard.
I’ve tried to forget what it felt like to have her hips pressed against mine. We spent so many summer nights in the bed of my truck, sneaking around like no one knew. I’ll never forget how the late afternoon sun made her skin glow. It feels like a dream now.
Focus, Jolly.
We move into the living room and settle on opposite ends of the couch. The fire crackles and pops. She tucks her feet under her and wraps both hands around her wineglass.
“Can I ask you something?” she says after a moment.
“You just did.”
She huffs. “Why did you throw out my peppermint fudge brownie?”
I nearly choke on the wine I was drinking. “Ah. I was almost convinced you didn’t see that.”
“If it tastes bad, I kinda need to know becau?—”
“It wasperfect. I was fucking with you.” I try to hold back a smile but fail.
“Asshole!”
I shrug. “I do what I can to live rent-free in that pretty little head of yours.”
“And you continue to prove my point.” Holiday smiles, like she’s committing this to memory.
I know I am.
Her shoulders relax, and she leans against the cushion. Neither of us says anything else; the truth is, I don’t know where to start. So instead, I watch the firelight play across her face, wondering what she’s thinking.
Eventually, she speaks. She always speaks first when the silence lingers too long between us. “This is what we used to wish for. Baking because we can. Being able to hang out with no curfew.”
“Yeah,” I say, sipping my wine.
“Do you think I’m romanticizing it?” She looks at me. “Everything I wanted in life felt like it was possible.”
The way she’s looking at me right now makes it hard to breathe. Like maybe she’s remembering the same things I am. The same nights. The same promises.
“It still is,” I encourage her.
“Everything?” She studies my face, and by her expression, I know what she’s asking.Us.Do we have a chance?
The timer on the oven goes off. Saved by the bell.
She moves to the kitchen, and I follow behind her. It’s hard for me to predict our future when I’ve been so damnwrong before.
