Page 39 of A Very Merry Enemy
“That’s not?—”
“Save it.” I move to the stove, start pulling out pots for the caramel. “Let’s just get this over with.”
The silence is tense. Holiday cracks eggs with more force than necessary. One splatters, and pieces of the shell fall into the bowl.
“You gonna fish that out?”
“Lucas, I swear to?—”
“What?”
“You’re not helping. You’re hovering and criticizingand giving me attitude. You’re worse than first-year culinary students. You wouldn’t last five minutes baking for real.” She fishes out the shell with her finger, flinging it into the trash. “But if you’re going to be here, at least be useful.”
“Fine. What do you want me to do?”
“Make the caramel. And don’t burn it.”
I bite back a comment and focus on the task. Sugar, water, butter. I’ve watched Mawmaw make this a hundred times.
The mixture starts bubbling, turning from clear to amber. I stir it, noticing the color darkening.
“Stir it more and turn the heat down,” Holiday says from behind me. She’s so close I can feel her breath on my neck. “It’s going to burn.”
“I know what I’m doing,” I snap.
“Really? Because it’s already too dark.”
The smell hits us both at the same time. Bitter.
“Shit.” I yank the pan off the heat, but it’s too late. The caramel is ruined.
“Told you,” Holiday says, but there’s no smugness. Just exhaustion.
I dump it in the trash and grab a clean pot to start over. This time, Holiday stands next to me, close enough that our elbows bump.
“Slow and steady,” she says, turning the heat down.
Her hand closes over mine on the wooden spoon, guiding my movement. Her fingers are warm, and for a second, I remember what it felt like when she used to touch me like this. When we’d bake together at Mawmaw’s house, her teaching me how to fold dough, both of us laughing when I’d mess it up.
Natural. Like we fit together.
She realizes how close she is and jerks her hand away like she’s been burned.
“You’ve got it,” she says, her voice strained. “Just like that.”
I don’t respond. Can’t. Because my skin is still tingling whereshe touched me, and I hate it. Hate that my body remembers even when my mind is screaming to forget.
The caramel turns out perfect, and I pull it off the heat.
“Much better,” Holiday says.
We work in silence, both trying to ignore how small this kitchen is. Every movement brings us closer together. In this short amount of time, we’ve developed a careful dance of not touching, not looking, not acknowledging the charged air.
Holiday portions out the cookie dough while I prep the caramel drizzle. Our hands keep almost touching when we both reach for something—the spatula, the salt, the baking sheets—and every time, we jerk away.
“Roll them bigger,” I say.
“They’re the right size,” she throws back.
