Page 16 of Not In The Christmas Plan
I can’t. I can’t let myself drown like that.
I fold the onesie with sharp precision and shove it into the basket. Then I stand quickly, putting distance between us.
“No,” I say, not looking at him. “It’s too late.”
The feel of his leg pressed against mine lingers long after I race upstairs, wondering how he keeps slipping under my defenses and how to get it to stop.
Chapter seven
Ihate to leave plans unfinished, but I need an emotional break.
Braxton called this morning and gave me a little peace of mind with news that Ivy is already up and walking and the babies are settled into the new hospital. It wasn’t much peace of mind—they are still away from home and me—but hearing the news was like catching the first few notes of “All I Want for Christmas Is You” drifting through the air on a hot August day and realizing the best time of year, along with cooler temperatures, is right around the corner. Plus, after folding Nia and Amani’s clothes had me fighting back tears, I knew I needed to hold on to that newfound hope.
So, I’m switching gears and turning to Christmas Prep. Specifically, cookie baking. I’ve got my favorite apron on, have lined the counters with the ingredients for Dad andIvy’s famous shortbread cookies,andI’m alone. Grant’s in his room hopping on some “very important” meetings so I get to bake cookies without the pressure of his gaze following my every move.
I hum “Deck the Halls”while studying the recipe card filled out in Dad’s neat script. After years of enjoying the benefits of him and Ivy making these, it’s daunting to be the one measuring the flour, cutting the butter, and trying to make these cookies look like hearts instead of lopsided snowmen. But I press on, reminding myself this is only a practice batch. When I master them and Ivy is home to eat them, it’ll be like Dad’s right here with us.
When the cookies are as close to perfection as I can make them, I dust flour off my apron and slide the pan into the oven.
Minutes later the timer dings, I pull them out—and my shoulders sink. Instead of the neat little hearts filled with jam that went in, out comes one giant, brittle cookie with jam bleeding intermittently like a horror-filled Christmas crime scene.
I stifle a groan.
“Something in here smells good,” Grant says, hand rubbing across his stomach as he rounds the corner. He stops when we sees the pan. After a moment his eyes flick to mine, then back to the pan, and a twitch plays across his lips. “What happened?”
“What do you think happened? I tried making cookies and got this lump instead.” His lips tremble from holding in his laughter and I cross my arms, shaking my head. “Grant, I am being so serious right now when I say your life is in mortal danger.”
He holds his hands up in surrender but still approaches. He breaks off a piece, blowing briefly before popping it in his mouth. I cringe when he bites down. Shortbread cookies should not be that crunchy straight from the oven.
“Not bad,” Grant says after a hard swallow. “Flavor’s there. Style too.” His gaze dips to my frilly pink apron. “I like the lace on you.”
I swat his hand away when he runs a finger along the trim. “The flavor doesn’t matter if the cookies barely come out edible.” I yank the apron off before Grant can touch it again and toss it on the counter before groaning. “Oh, God. I’ll have to run to the store for more ingredients.” I throw my head in my hands for good measure.
“Okay, what’s wrong with that? It’s only a few minutes away, and it’s not like we’re in 2008 dealing with Black Friday shoppers.”
I shake my head. “You don’t know the half of it.”
“If you’re really scared, I’ll be your bodyguard.”
“Ain’t nobody scared,” I scoff, though I actually am. It gets scary trying to buy baked goods when everyone is in full Christmas baking mode. “And you wouldn’t understand because you’re not from here.”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry, Big Daddy Grant will make sure no harm comes to Her Honor,” he says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders like he’s protecting me from an angry hoard.
His body is warm and hard, and perfect for snuggling against.
I immediately push him away.
Grant laughs, unfazed. “Seriously, I’ll come. I need to grab a few things anyway.”
“What things?”
“Groceries, what else? Unless you were planning to survive on turkey and hot chocolate?”
If it meant having peace without Grant around to push my buttons at every turn, yes I absolutely would survive on turkey and hot chocolate as long as I could. But going off Grant’s challenging stare, I know he’s going to find a way to come shopping with me anyway. Besides, he’ll wish soon enough he’d just stayed here.
I roll my eyes. “Fine, but I’m driving.”
“Fine, butI’mpicking the music,” he says, smirking on his way past me to grab his coat.
