Page 52 of Not Your Average Vixen
He barked out a little laugh. “I figured you were an Ivy Leaguer like your sister. Tom couldn’t stop telling me Lori went to Harvard when they first got together.” He tossed a wrapper into the trash. “Why didn’t you go to college? You seem as tenacious as Lori.”
Bridget set a ball of dough, rolled into a perfect sphere, onto the tray, then looked up and held his gaze. And a cold trickle worked its way down his spine. There was nothing playful in her eyes, but they blazed with a determined ferocity.
“I’m the oldest. I was Lori’s guardian after my grandmother died, and somebody had to pay the bills to make sure she had everything she needed to get into a school like Harvard.”
Between the scent of the cookies and the warmth emanating from the oven, a buzzy headiness came over him. Pain flashed in her eyes before she broke their connection and started in on another ball of dough.
He placed an unwrapped chocolate kiss on the counter next to the others and stared hard at the candy lining the wooden table. “I’m sorry. I forgot that Lori said you’d taken care of her after your grandmother passed away. I didn’t put two and two together.”
She gave him a sharp nod, acknowledging his half-assed apology but not really accepting it.
And for God knows what reason, that hurt. Unlike anyone he’d ever met, her fierce protective retort had elicited a response in him.
“That was a shitty thing for me to say. What can I do to make it up to you?”
Her hardened demeanor melted away as a decidedly mischievous smirk pulled at the corners of her lips, and immediately, he regretted his apology. She was cooking up—or baking up—a plan, and it didn’t look good for him.
She placed the tray of cookies into the oven, dusted off her hands, then pulled her phone out of her bag.
“Are you setting your phone’s timer?” he asked, working to keep the nervous edge out of his voice.
Why did she make him nervous?
He didn’t know. But she did.
“Well, Mr. Rudolph, to make it up to me, I’ve got a job for you,” she said, tapping away on her phone.
“What’s that? More chocolate to unwrap?”
Jesus! Was it getting hot in here? It had to be the oven.
She glanced at the mound of chocolate kisses. “Nope, that’s enough.”
He unzipped his coat and hung it on the back of the kitchen chair. “Then what?”
With one last tap to her cell, music played and a deep voice crooning “White Christmas” filled the peanut butter scented air.
She plucked a gummy bear from the bag Tanner had left on the counter and popped it into her mouth as her mischievous smirk morphed into a full-on shit-eating grin.
“You,Scooter Rudolph, are going to dance.”
8
Soren
Dance?
“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” he shot back.
He glanced around the kitchen. They were alone in the mountain house, but there was no way he was about to break into a jig or whatever the hell she wanted him to do.
Bridget popped a few more gummy bears into her mouth, then swayed to the music. He recognized the tune—he wasn’t a complete Grinch. It was Bing Crosby. Janine had played the very same holiday album in her kitchen all those years ago. The guy had a deep voice and, to a ten-year-old, sounded pretty corny. He’d giggled with Janine’s sons at the sound of it. But there was a soothing, calming quality to the music he’d never forgotten.
Bridget sashayed around the room, tidying up as the heady scent of the baking cookies mingled with the pile of unwrapped chocolates. His mouth watered, and he wasn’t sure if he craved her or the sweets.
And speaking of sweets, when was the last time he’d indulged in baked goods? He couldn’t even remember. Those cupcakes Mr. and Mrs. Angel had left at his office smelled delectable, but he didn’t eat that kind of junk. It took work to get abs like his.
Discipline.
