Page 3 of A Very Merry Enemy
Emma blinks at me. “How are you so good at this?”
Bethany laughs. “She worked in Paris at a fancy-schmancy luxury bakery. For, like, over a decade!”
I roll my eyes. “That’s enough. I swear, I’ll tell your parents you snuck out last week to be with Trent.”
“Oh, please don’t. My mom will kill me.”
I give her a smile. “I’m not a snitch. Use protection.”
“We’re not doin’ it. We’re just friends,” she says with a laugh and removes her apron.
“Yeah, I know how that is,” I say, the comment going over everyone’s heads, thankfully.
“Hudson is here to get me,” Emma says, standing carefully, one hand on her lower back.
“Are you feeling okay?” I ask.
“Just tired. The twins are heavy.” She gives me a hug. “We sold out! Every single cookie on day one! Thank you.”
“Tomorrow we’ll triple the batch,” I tell her.
“You’re amazing. Lock up when you’re done?”
“Of course.”
Bethany grabs her backpack. “I’m gonna head to school.”
“How many hours did you work this week while we were prepping?” I ask.
“Eighteen. I’m below my twenty-hour limit.”
“Perfect. See you Monday?”
“Yep!” She waves and follows Emma out.
I watch them leave. Emma moves toward Hudson’s truck, and Bethany strolls to her car, already on her phone.
The shop is quiet now. It’s just me and the Christmas music and the smell of sugar.
I start cleaning up, boxing the leftover supplies, and wiping down counters. The rhythm is soothing, familiar. This, I can control.
As I walk into the kitchen to grab the broom, the bell over the front door jingles.
“We’re sold out!” I holler, turning around. “Sorry, you’ll have?—”
A cold draft drifts over my skin, and the air changes when I meet Lucas Jolly’s green eyes. After all this time, my body still recognizes him before my brain catches up.
He’s taller and more muscular than I remember. Time has been annoyingly kind to him. A wool hat is pulled low on his head, and messy dark hair sticks out from underneath. His flannel shirt is open over a thermal that stretches across his chest. Stubble sprinkles across his chiseled jaw.
He looks like a lumberjack who’d rather chop me down than talk to me.
His eyes move over the bakery like he’s assessing a problem he plans to solve with an axe.
I straighten my spine. “We’re closed.”
“Good thing I don’t want cookies.” His voice is rough and cold. He still doesn’t look at me. Just scans around me like I’m part of the furniture.
“Then what do you want, Lucas?”
