Page 143 of A Very Merry Enemy
“Oh, the most perfect, Colby. The perfect son. The perfect big brother. You’re the absolute best.”
“You totally are! And you know what, because you’re so amazing, I’m going to make you some very special cookies just for being the best.”
“Oh, really? Aunt Holiday, you’re baking me big brother cookies?” His voice goes up an octave.
“Yes, I am,” I promise him.
Emma watches Lucas and me hold the babies with tears in her eyes. “The kids are lucky to have you.”
I glance over at Lucas and find him already staring at me. I give him a smile and he returns it. Something passes between us. It’s understanding, and a promise that someday this could be us.
CHAPTER 29
HOLIDAY
The past week has been a blur of flour, sugar, and stolen moments with Lucas.
We’ve been working ourselves to exhaustion, trying to maintain the farm and the bakery with the crowds of customers on the property. I’ve obsessively been trying to perfect every detail of our contest entry because I won’t give those professional judges one reason not to choose us. The shortbread fudge cookie base will be exactly right with crispy edges, a chewy fudge top, with just enough chocolate to balance the buttery shortbread. The homemade vanilla bean ice cream needs to be churned at an exact time so it doesn’t melt and turn into a sloppy mess.
Every practice run we’ve done this week has been timed down to the second. We have exactly three hours to prepare everything from scratch in front of the judges, and we’ve been rehearsing until we can do it in our sleep. The contest itself isn’t that serious. Any other time, I wouldn’t go to these lengths, but Dominic discredited me very publicly, and now I have something to prove. I won’t allow him to embarrass me in front of four other industry professionals. This is one example of my being overqualified that I will happilyaccept.
“You’re so pretty,” Lucas tells me, tucking loose hair that’s fallen out of my bun behind my ear.
“You are, too,” I tell him as we work around the kitchen in perfect sync, like we can predict one another’s moves.
This past week, baking consumed us, but sneaking around did, too.
We’ve exchanged many stolen kisses in the back of the bakery when we think no one’s watching. I’ve spent too many late nights at his place while we try to keep our relationship private. But the whole town seems determined to expose us.
We couldn’t even have breakfast at Glenda’s Diner without people staring. Right after, pictures surfaced of our fingers touching across the table. I’m almost convinced that not going public has made the articles worse. They’re full of speculation, even though we’ve shown incredible restraint while out and about.
Old pictures of Dominic and me have surfaced from some internet black hole, making it seem like I’m dating them both, even though those photos are five years old. This love triangle is a scandal that’s been fabricated to get more views. My life went from a Hallmark movie to reality TV entertainment in weeks. I’m neither.
According to Bella, who’s friends with someone who works at the Merryville Inn, Dominic’s been asking about Lucas and me. He wants to know when this relationship started. I came home to escape him, and now it feels like the walls are closing in. Thankfully, I’ve been so busy, I’ve barely been able to think straight. Days and weeks have melted together, and I know I just need to survive the holidays.
Today’s practice run was supposed to be one of our final dress rehearsals before the contest next Saturday.
Lucas and I make it through the shortbread cookies and fudge in the first ninety minutes. The ice cream base is prepared and churning by the two-hour mark. We’re on track, working inperfect sync, when Lucas pulls me close against the counter and kisses me.
“Mm,” I hum against his mouth, wrapping my arms around his neck. “Don’t get used to this.”
“Why not?” He kisses down my neck, making it hard to think.
“Because when we’re actually competing, we can’t do this as much as I want to,” I remind him. “We have to be professional.”
Lucas steals another kiss and smirks. “Okay. Sure.”
“Lucas…come on. I don’t want any drama.”
“There won’t be any. I’ll behave. Promise.” He shoots me a wink.
“One more week,” I say, cupping his face.
He pulls me close again, resting his forehead against mine. “I know, Peaches. We’ve got this. Now, let’s finish this so you’re not late for dinner with your parents.”
“You’re right,” I tell him, glancing up at the clock on the wall.
We finish the practice run in two hours and fifty-six minutes—four minutes to spare. The cookie base is perfect, and the fudge is soft. The ice cream is creamy and smooth with visible vanilla bean flecks. After we’ve got the presentation down, I pull out my phone and take a picture.
