Page 72 of A Very Merry Mistake

I swallow hard, a lump forming in my throat. “We have rules, CeCe.”

“I know,” she says, studying my lips.

We don’t say anything else because it’s understood. She’s leaving. She has a life outside of Merryville, and while it’s fun to pretend that it’s just us against the world, that’s not reality. For either of us.

“Don’t,” I whisper, brushing my lips across hers. “I don’t want to think about you leavin’ me. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

She nods, slamming her mouth to mine as too many emotions swirl between us. “What did you want to do? You’d mentioned something but never told me.”

I’m glad for the change of subject. I clear my throat. “Well, I thought we could build a gingerbread house together.”

A wide smile fills her face. “Really? I’ve never done it before.”

“Even better,” I say. I grab the homemade dough from the fridge and some eggs so they can get to room temperature.

Claire points at the brown ball, puzzled. “You just have it waiting in your fridge at all times?”

I kiss her forehead, then wash my hands. “I defrosted it in the fridge a few days ago for this occasion. It’s a staple around here during this time of year. You can freeze it for up to three months, then pull it out when you want some cookies or a gingerbread house.”

She snorts. “You’re so nonchalant about it.”

“This stuff is my grandma’s recipe. Now, let’s get to baking. Remember, your eggs need to be at room temperature for our royal icing. It’s a key step.”

She repeats it. “Wait, royal icing? That sounds very fancy.”

I laugh. “It’s the sugary glue that holds it all together. Without it, the whole thing will collapse. We don’t want that.”

Claire is overly excited about this as she removes her damp hair from the towel. After she throws it in the laundry room and returns, she washes her hands. “All right. Teach me your Jolly ways.”

I grab some flour, parchment paper, and a rolling pin and set it on the counter. Then I go through the steps with her as I preheat the oven.

“You’ll flatten all this out so we can make the walls and roof,” I explain as she tries to smoosh it down with her palms. “Gonna take more elbow grease than that, but you’ve got this. Start at the edges with the pin and roll your way up,” I encourage.

“This smells so good,” she says, inhaling the cinnamon and ginger.

As Claire continues to flatten it, I measure the sugar and pour it into the mixing bowl.

“How’s this?” she asks.

“Almost there.” I give her an encouraging smile, and she continues.

“I think I already have more of an appreciation for the art of this.”

This makes me chuckle. “And we’ve only just gotten started.”

“So you have the steps and ingredients memorized?”

“Learned them by heart. It was something we’d do every year growing up. The tradition started a long time ago by family when Merryville was first established. I’ve probably made a whole neighborhood of houses in all different shapes and sizes over the years. What about you? Any holiday traditions?”

She shakes her head. “Not unless you’d count drinking wine alone as one.”

“It doesn’t because you can do that every day of the year, and no one would think twice about it. If you made a fuckton of gingerbread houses in March, and you didn’t live in Merryville, people might give you the side-eye.”

She snorts. “You’re right. But maybe, after tonight, this will be my new one. Probably need to learn how to make the dough, though.”

“No can do. It’s a secret recipe.”

She gasps. “You wouldn’t tell me?”

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