Page 69 of Holiday Friend Zones
ChapterFive
AVA
The town hall smells like butter and cinnamon and a little bit of chaos.Long folding tables line the room, each one dusted with flour and strewn with mixing bowls.Someone’s strung cranberries around the rafters, and there’s a chalkboard scoreboard near the stage: Mistletoe Match Standings.Our names—Ava & Liam—sit in second after the snowman win and sled relay.I pretend not to care.
“Apron,” Liam says, holding one out like a peace offering.It’s red with a crooked felt snowflake stitched on the pocket.
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” I mutter, slipping the apron over my head.
“You love it,” he says, stepping behind me to tie the strings.His fingers brush my waist—barely there—and my breath falters.I stare very hard at the recipe card I brought and will my heart to behave.
“What’s the game plan, Reynolds?”he asks, coming around to my side.“I assume there is one?”
“Ginger-molasses with an orange glaze,” I say, tapping the card.“Classic, cozy, superior.”
“Bold,” he says, grinning.“I was going to suggest shortbread cookies, but I defer to the professional.”
“I’m a graphic designer, Liam, not a baker.”
“Exactly.You’re good at making things pretty.”His eyes find mine, unexpectedly earnest.“You always have been.”
“Youare the world-renowned photographer, roaming the globe, taking pictures that end up in glossy magazines.I think you have the wholemaking things beautifulthing covered too.”
“Stalking me, Reynolds?I’ve always hoped you’d notice me.”
I look down fast, because warmth is crawling up my neck and that won’t do.Is Liam flirting with me?I swear that felt flirty.To take my mind off of what just happened, I get to work.“Okay, sous-chef.Measure.Don’t eyeball.”
“Me?Eyeball?”He clutches his chest.“I would never.”
He absolutely would.We fall into a rhythm anyway—me measuring, him mixing, the bowl turning glossy and dark under the whisk.Christmas music plays too loudly from a speaker in the corner, and every so often a cheer goes up from another table when somebody cracks a joke or drops something in dramatic fashion.It’s impossible not to smile.
“Sugar,” I say, holding out my hand.
He dumps what looks like half the bag into a bowl.“Precise,” I deadpan.
“You said don’t eyeball.I went for the whole-face approach.”He bumps my hip with his.I try to bump him back and my elbow catches the bag of flour.A white cloud erupts, snowing down over the table, over him, and over me.
He blinks at me through flour-dusted lashes and laughs.Not the polished, charming laugh he uses on strangers.The one from when we were twelve and building lopsided gingerbread houses in my mom’s kitchen.It punches something familiar and old in my chest.
“You—” I start, and he points.
“You’ve got—” he says at the same time, reaching out.His thumb drags a slow line along my cheekbone, warm and careful, gathering a streak of flour.He doesn’t move for a second.Neither do I.
The room narrows to his hand on my face and the peppermint on his breath.My pulse roars like the oven fan.His eyes flick down to my mouth, linger there, and the air between us tightens, charged.He leans in closer, just a fraction, close enough that I feel the heat of his skin rolling off him, close enough that one more heartbeat would have him kissing me.My lips part, waiting—wanting?—
Mrs.McAllister’s voice slices through.“Ten minutes left, couples!”
I step back like I’ve been released.Liam clears his throat, dropping his hand like nothing happened.“Glaze,” I say too stiffly.“We need to make the glaze.”
He nods, like we didn’t just almost do something crazy.“On it.”
We work faster—me whisking powdered sugar and orange zest until it’s silky, him scooping dough onto trays with laser focus that would be funny if it weren’t weirdly attractive.The first tray slides into the oven.I set a timer and try not to watch his mouth when he licks a bit of glaze off his thumb.
“You okay?”he asks, voice low.There’s a brightness in his eyes, but the edges are soft.He knows me well enough to hear the static in my head.
“I’m great,” I lie, wondering what on earth is happening between Liam and me.
The timer dings.When we pull the cookies out, they’re perfect with crinkled tops and sugared edges.The kitchen fills with the warm bite of spice.I drizzle the glaze while he garnishes with the tiniest curls of orange peel because apparently, I’ve infected him with aesthetics.He leans close to see, his shoulder brushing mine, and the contact zips straight through me.
