Page 8 of The Christmas Cookie Crush

He grins.

“I could hear you, you know,” I tell him. One of his eyebrows raises in silent question. “You and Dylan. When you were plotting. I heard you whispering about how funny it’d be to give me a Warhead and see what would happen. I knew they were sour. I knew you were laughing at each other. Iknew.”

Understanding dawns on his face, and a surge of triumph flows through me. The same triumph I felt all those years ago when I popped one of the most sour candies they could get from the gas station convenience store on their way home from school, stared them down, and didn’t flinch at all. “Thanks,” I’d said around the big ball in my mouth. Then I’d trotted off, fighting down every involuntary tug of my facial muscles in response to the sourness. Even out of sight, I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of reacting. I ate the whole damn thing without so much as a twitch.

That confession makes him laugh. He throws back his head, even. “Oh, that’s priceless.” He’s still grinning when he meets my eyes again, shaking his head, bursts of laughter still erupting occasionally. “No wonder you didn’t react.”

“I’d’ve sooner died than let you see me flinch.” My eyes flick to the bag still in his hand. “So what’s that? Licorice surprise? Warhead surprise?”

He cackles. A good and proper cackle. Such an ass.

Shaking his head, he runs a finger past the corner of his eye—and I don’tat allnotice his long, dark lashes that’d be the envy of women everywhere or his even brows, and definitely not the way his golden eyes sparkle with humor. “That’d be funny, actually. But no. Those aren’t on the menu at Give and Cake. It’s a cranberry scone.”

“So you picked the sourest fruit since you couldn’t give me sour candies?”

He grins like I’ve made a hilarious joke. “Honestly, I’d forgotten all about that until you just mentioned it. Fitting, though, isn’t it?” He shakes his head. “They’re sweet, though. I mean, sure, it’s cranberry, there’s a hint of tartness, but there’s enough sugar that it doesn’t make your mouth pucker or anything.”

As he says the words, his eyes drop to my lips, and I fight the urge to roll them between my teeth. My hot childhood nemesis has no right to look at my lips like that!

He holds up the bag once more, taking a step closer to offer it to me.

But I cross my arms again, rearing back and shaking my head. “No, thanks,” I say firmly, stepping back. “You like sour things so much, you eat it.” Turning on my heel, I head for the locker room, muttering under my breath, “I hope you choke.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Austin

I stand rootedto the spot for at least a full five minutes, staring at the place where Nora’s green-velvet clad back disappeared behind a door into the staff-only area of the ChristmasFest.

That … did not go as planned.

Were we really that terrible, though, Dylan and me? Does she hate him as much as she clearly hates me?

I mean, we were kids. It was ages ago. How is she possibly still mad?

Finally, I take a deep breath, looking down at the bag in my hand. I’m not sure what to do with this now. Part of me wants to leave it here, but it’ll be stale by morning, especially just wrapped in a pastry bag. Stale scones aren’t much of a peace offering.

Why do I even care? She doesn’t want a peace offering. Peace is the last thing on her mind.

But it rankles.

Turning back toward the Give and Cake stand, I puzzle over why. And it basically boils down to two reasons—she’s a familiar face in my age bracket, and she’s pretty. Especially in that clingy elf costume, showing off her petite frame and round little ass swaying as she marched away. My fingers itch for a pencil, knowing exactly how to capture that with a few strokes of charcoal. A figure drawing class I took had a section focused on movement, and it was one of the most fun things I’ve ever done. Nora, with all her stomping and storming around, is the perfect subject.

It’s clear she can’t stand me, though. I should leave her alone.

Should.

The proverbial devil on my shoulder thinks I should mess with her, though. I mean, she expects me to, after all. Why shouldn’t I? My teachers always put “exceeds expectations” on my report cards. If I’m being cast as the villain, I might as well lean into it, right?

A plan forming, I turn and head back to gather my things and head home, a wicked grin on my face. This is going to be fun.

It takes a couple days before I can start implementing my evil plan. At first it’s because we had a big snow fall—eight inches overnight and then six more while I was working—and I spent all my free time shoveling. Grampy tried to get me to use the snowblower, but I enjoy the meditative quality of shoveling. I always feel like firing up the snowblower breaks the spell of quietcast by fresh snow. I’ll use it if I’m in a hurry, or if there’s a lot of area to cover, but their driveway isn’t that big, and the sidewalks are quick and easy to do. And since I spend nearly all my time standing behind a counter, it’s nice to get some kind of exercise in.

It’s good that I can’t do what I’m planning right away, though. Nora’s suspicious. I’ve caught her watching me on her break a few times. I always smile and give her a cheerful wave, which only makes her narrow her eyes, scowl, and flounce off.

The flouncing is my favorite.

She always has her dark brown hair braided. It was tucked up under her hat when she came by Give and Cake, but the last few times I’ve seen her, it’s been hanging down her back. And when she whirls around, it flies out, landing in front of her shoulder, then she flings it to her back as she marches off.

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