Page 83 of A Very Merry Enemy
“No.I’mdreadingit. But I’m trying to reprogram my thoughts,” she says with a shrug.
My smile fades, and the quietness lingers.
“Did he hurt you?” I ask with my voice lowered, needing to hear it from her lips. “Don’t lie. Please.”
“Just emotionally,” she admits. “But that’s my fault for staying.”
“No, it’s fucking not.” I take a step forward, holding my arms out, and she falls into me. I hold her tight, my fingers threading through her hair. “He’s never going to hurt you again.”
“You shouldn’t care,” she whispers.
“I’m aware.” I rest my chin on the top of her head and don’t move until she’s the one to pull away first. “But for some reason I do.”
She loosens her grip and looks up at me, and I wipe away her tears. “You’re too pretty to cry.”
“You don’t mean that,” she says, breathing me in.
I tap her button nose. “I don’t give pity compliments to anyone. Not even you, Peaches.”
“You’re the only person I can trust to keep me honest,” she says. “It’s why I’ve tried to avoid you. It’s like a vampire looking into the sun.”
“Dramatic, don’t you think?”
She immediately smiles. “Stop calling me Peaches or I’m going to fuck you up.”
“Make me,” I mutter. She elbows me in the stomach, and a laugh spills out of me.
“Oof. I’m going to make a complaint with Emma.”
Holiday gives me a smug look. “Go ahead.”
The mood immediately shifts as we clean our mess. Eventually, the timer buzzes, and she removes the shortbread from the oven to let it cool. Her eyes drift up to the clock on the wall.
“You think we should bring Mawmaw other options?”
“Nah. This is it, and you know it.” I lean against the counter. “Stop second-guessing yourself.”
She nods. “You’re right.”
Holiday shaves semi-sweet chocolate from a bar as I put the double boiler on the stove.
I place butter on the top as Holiday drops in the chocolate. My job is to stir while she pours the condensed milk into the pot. She’s standing so close to me that I can feel the warmth of her body. Before everything is completely melted, I remove it from the stove, and she dumps vanilla in. Once it’s all incorporated, I drop the pecans into the mixture.
“Go ahead,” she tells me, and I empty the fudge mixture on top of the shortbread. Holiday sprinkles it with salt, then places a piece of parchment paper on top before shoving it into a spot she saved in the fridge.
She lifts her hand, and I give her a high five. “We prepped that in twenty minutes.”
“’Cause we kick ass.” I take the broiler to the sink and wash it. She grabs a towel and dries it, placing it back on the shelf where it lives.
“Go home and get ready. I’ll bring this when I pick you up in two and a half hours,” I tell her as I wipe down the counter. There’s not much more to be done because we cleaned after we prepped for tomorrow.
“I can meet you there.”
“Yeah, I know you can. But I’m not letting that happen.” I finish wiping down the counter, then throw the rag in the dirty hamper.
She gives me a suspicious look. “Okay?”
“Okay. I’ll be at your house at four thirty.”
