Page 45 of A Very Merry Enemy
We stand there for a second too long, and I can feel the tension from last week still hanging between us.
“Come in,” he finally says, stepping aside.
I walk past him and stop in the entryway.
The open floor plan, with vaulted ceilings and exposed beams, is exactly how he once described it to me. A stone fireplace is the showpiece of the living room with a thick wooden mantel that’s been stained dark. The kitchen has tons of counter space, an island with barstools, and professional-grade appliances.
“Wow,” I say, moving forward, noticing the windows overlooking the woods. “This is a dream kitchen.”
“I know,” he says.
“This house is exactly like we talked about. The layout, the windows, even the fireplace.” I turn to look at him. “You made it happen.”
Something flickers across his face. “Almost.”
The words hang between us, weighted with everything we’re not saying.
He follows me farther into the kitchen, breaking the moment. “You want a tour?”
“Yeah. I’d like that.”
He shows me around the first floor—the living room with built-in bookshelves, filled with thrillers and books about tree cultivation. His office has a large oak desk that faces the windows. The half bath has the subway tiles he’d always loved. I follow behind him as he leads the way upstairs, and I try not to stare at the muscles that cascade down his back.
He shows me all three bedrooms, along with the suite that has a king-size bed and vaulted ceilings. He even has a gas fireplace up here. There’s a gigantic walk-in closet and a bathroom with a big shower and a deep tub.
“You have a lot of space,” I mutter.
“Built it for a future that didn’t happen.” He shrugs, but I can see the tension in his shoulders. “Anyway, this is it. We should get started.”
Back in the kitchen, he removes ingredients from his pantry that’s tucked away in the corner. The tension is noticeable, but it isn’t unbearable.
I wash my hands at the farmhouse sink, a style I always loved. It’s not lost on me that this ismydream kitchen, not his. “I read the contest rules. We have to bake at the Christmas Festival contest area, and each team will have its own oven, sink, and prep area. It all has to be done in front of the judges. We have to bake fifty cookies without rushing. I think three hours is plenty of time.”
“Good.”
“I was thinking we could try a different cookie. What family recipes do you have memorized?” I ask.
“Gingerbread, which we can’t use because Emma and Hudson used it last year to win. And my favorite of Mawmaw’s, a chunky chocolate chip with pecans.”
“Make the dough for the chocolate chip pecan ones. I have an idea.”
His brows furrow, but he doesn’t argue. Lucas seems indifferent today.
We fall into our rhythm. He measures flour and sugar while I melt chocolate in a double boiler. The kitchen is smaller with him in it, which means we keep bumping into each other. His arm brushes mine when he reaches for the vanilla. My hip bumps his when I move over to his stand mixer.
“Sorry,” I say after the third collision.
He ignores me.
We work in silence, mixing the two separate doughs—my fudge cookie base and his chocolate chip with pecans. His movements are confident. Out of everyone in Merryville, he’s actually the best baking partner for me because he pushes me to be better.
I watch him fold chocolate chips gently, and I’m impressed. It makes me think about all those summers we used to bake together just for fun.
He glances at me, and there’s almost a smile. I wonder if he thinks about those times, too. Probably not.
Once our doughs are ready, Lucas plops them down on the tray. I scoop some of my fudge dough and place it in the middle of his cookies and place them on the baking sheet in neat rows.
Our hands keep almost touching, but neither of us jerks away quite as fast anymore.
