Page 73 of Wrapped with a Beau

Why did he have to go and say that? Making her want things. She was just trying to cheer him up, show him that what he wants is within reach. Don’t have traditions? Make them. Every beginning has to start somewhere, right?

With an expression that suggests he’s found a lump of coal in his stocking, Ves sighs. “Fine.”

It’s halfhearted agreement with absolutely zero enthusiasm, but it’s a win and she’ll take it. Impulsively, Elisha kisses him on the cheek. He turns pink immediately, and in the spontaneity of the moment, she forgot he was sick. But what she doesn’t forget is how soft his eyes look as she clambers off the sofa. “Are you well enough to help me carry the boxes down from the attic?”

“Probably not.” He gets up anyway, giving her a melting smile. “Lead the way.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Elisha

It’s times like these that Elisha really regrets giving back her key to the Christmas House. She’s been knocking on Ves’s door for the last five minutes and she knows he’s home. Where is he? He knows she always comes over after work, and this Friday is no exception. This time, instead of her knuckles, she uses her fists.

The door swings open, revealing a disheveled Ves. “Sorry, I was just in the middle of something.”

Elisha runs her eyes up and down his body. “Oh?”

He gives her a look and steps aside to let her in. His rumpled appearance is a good one: damp blond hair combed back, ends just starting to curl; a white cotton tee and cozy gray sweatpants with the faintest dusting of... is that dust? No, it can’t be. They’ve swept, swabbed, and vacuumed the house within an inch of its life. He swats at the white marks on his upper thighs and knees, but it only rubs them in further.

She doesn’t even get a moment to bask in the charm of yesterday’s decorating spree—Christmas tree all lit up and the thick green garland draped over the fireplace mantel, trimmed with rustic pine cones, red ball ornaments, and gold berries—before she smells it. “Um, Ves, what’s burning?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly.

She gives him a doubtful harrumph and sets straight for the kitchen. Resting on the counter is an aluminum-lined tray with a dozen charred discs that maybe, in another life, could have been called cookies. “Please don’t tell me you’re entering the Winter Festival cookie exchange with these.”

“Hell no, just trying something new. It’s not as bad as it tastes,” he says with an embarrassed laugh.

She picks one up and contemplates eating it. “You mean it’s not as bad as it looks?”

Ves points to a cookie that’s been nibbled at the edges. “Uh. No, it’s definitely as bad as it looks. But just know that it tastes even worse.”

She promptly drops it. “If you wanted to sate your sweet tooth, you should have dropped by the Chocolate Mouse.” She tries not to think about another appetite that hasn’t quite been sated.

He might be doing the same, because he’s staring at his ruined cookies with a look of abject fascination. “Yeah, I know. I just wanted to try my hand at it.”

“Shame,” says Elisha, picking one up and letting it thunk down with a wince. “These hallongrotta could have been really good if they’re anything like the ones Maeve used to make.”

“Hallongrotta?”

The confusion in his voice surprises her. “Yeah, these cookies. They’re Swedish butter cookies with a raspberry jam center, right?”

“I’ve always just thought of them as thumbprint cookies. I remembered she made them with me when I was here. I pressed my thumb in each one and she filled it with the jam. Do you think they were a family recipe or something? My mom didn’t know what I was talking about when I tried to describe it to her. So I just assumed she didn’t know because Maeve was Dad’s aunt, not hers.”

“Maybe? I think she learned this from her grandmother? She said she was Bulgarian and Swedish on her mother’s side and German on her father’s.” Elisha laughs. “Maeve was always trying out new recipes to get in touch with her roots. We loved her schnitzel but drew the line at blood sausage.”

He looks like he’s repressing a shudder. “Thankfully my memories aren’t as gruesome. I’ll go with cookies any day.”

“Oh, she made these for us, too! They were always a hit at the Christmas cookie exchange.” Suddenly, it occurs to her. “Wait, are you sure you didn’t get conned into joining this year? I mean, I know Marcy can be wily, but surely even she wouldn’t think these were fit for public consumption.”

Patches of red flare in his pale cheeks and she immediately feels shitty. He clears his throat. “No, I just wanted to bake. Truly.”

She grins. “Getting in the Christmas spirit, are we?”

He snorts. “No. Believe me, I’d much rather buy than make. I’m not great with my hands.”

“Um, beg to differ.” She shoots him a wink before her gaze snags on something. “Oh, what’s that? Making friends other than me already, huh?” His face turns tomato red, but he doesn’t get there in time to stop her.

She snatches a card off the table. It’s a fairly generic cream greeting card with a gold tree on it. She pops it open, thoroughly intending to roast him if it’s from one of the old ladies on their street who she suspects fancy him just a little bit.

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