Page 63 of Holly versus Mr. Ivy
Plucking the peanut butter from the shelf and the bread out of a hanging basket, I took my loot to the island.
Holly dug around inside the fridge for the special “strawberry reduction sauce.”
“Where are the butter knives?”
Holly stepped way closer than the situation called for to set the bottle of jam on the counter. Her arm brushed my side, making pops of electricity spark across my nerve endings.I see what you did there, Holly.
She turned to a drawer behind her, pulling out the utensil I needed.
“Plates?”
Just like with the jelly, she stood right next to me to place the knife on the counter, her fingers gliding lightly across my forearm in the process. A touch so light shouldn’t cause a reaction so deep. One that went straight to my core.
I quivered from her touch. Her taunting. This little game we played was as dangerous as a single match on a dry forest floor.
Holly handed me the plates, and I made sure my fingers covered hers as she passed them to me. Heat transferred between us like one torch lighting the other. “Thank you,” I managed to get out.
Holly’s eyes locked with mine. “You’re welcome.”
Tearing my gaze away from Holly’s gorgeous deep blue eyes, I scraped peanut butter out of the jar. “Are you an even peanut butter-to-jelly person, or do you prefer more of one condiment over the other?”
Holly leaned her hip against the counter, watching me. “Even. You?”
“I like a little more peanut butter than jelly, but not too much. I still want that pop of sweetness.” As I assembled the sandwich, I had an epiphany. “You know, this kind of reminds me of you. You’re salty with a sweet side. Exactly the way I like it.”
After lunch, Holly and I worked on setting the table. A wood box filled with leaf garland and pumpkins sat in the middle. Pillar candles flanked each end of the box. Four burnt orange placemats with cream plates and carefully folded linen napkins and crystal wine glasses completed each place setting. The decorations were pretty and festive.
“Let’s get this turkey out of the oven,” Holly said, rubbing her hands together. “Trevor, you ready?”
Trevor pulled oven mitts out of a drawer, sliding them onto his hands. “I’m ready.”
Holly stood to the left of Trevor as he opened the oven door. I stayed as far away as possible, not wanting to get in anyone’s way when the main course was being brought out.
“That looks so good. You did an excellent job, Holly,” Trevor said, pulling the wire rack out halfway.
“The skin crisped perfectly.” Holly stared at the turkey, pleased with the outcome.
As if it wouldn’t taste good. Everything I’d eaten at the restaurant that Holly had made was fantastic.
Deidre scooted around Trevor, trying to peek over his shoulder at the bird. Deidre’s slipper tripped on the edge of a rug, and in slow motion she tried catching her balance by grabbing onto Trevor, who now held the heavy baking pan in his hands. Deidre’s motion caused Trevor to stumble, and the turkey wobbled. The right side tilted dangerously to the left, about to fall out of the pan.
“Noooo!” Holly cried, reaching her bare hands out to keep our dinner from falling to the floor.
“Oh, no!” Deidre shouted.
Holly screamed, “Fates blasted son of a monkey! That hurts!” but didn’t let go of the hot turkey scalding her hands until Trevor steadied the pan and dropped it on the counter.
My stomach jumped to my throat as I watched in horror.
“Whoa!” Trevor hollered. “Are you okay, Hols? You should have let it fall.”
Holly ran out of the kitchen and down the hall. I chased after her.
“Holly?” I called out, panicked. How much pain was she in? How bad were her burns? Did we need to rush her to the hospital?
She stood in the bathroom by the counter, her hands held under running water in the sink. In the reflection of the mirror, I saw tears streaming down her cheeks.
My chest tightened. Without her hands, she wouldn’t be able to work. More than that, I didn’t like seeing her in pain.
