Page 21 of Say It Isn't Snow
“Hey.” I saunter to the kitchen.
“How’s Greta?”
“She’s good. What are you up to?”
She gives me a deadpan look and gestures at everything she’s pulled out with a whisk that has a clear glitter handle. “Obviously, I’m setting up a seance to contact the great beyond.”
I chuckle. “Badass.”
She ducks her head to hide a smile. “Shut up.”
“Make me,” I fire back, letting my tone go low and suggestive.
Her wide-eyed expression flies to me. After floundering for a response, she lands on a chiding, “Caleb.”
I tilt my head with a seductive hum. “Love it when you say my name, sugar cookie.”
“Caleb.”
“That’s it, baby. Keep saying it. You make it sound so nice.” I jump away with a snicker when she tosses a handful of flour at me in retaliation. “Okay, you win. Truce.”
I keep quiet for a few minutes so she doesn’t chase me out of the kitchen. After I sweep the flour that fell on the floor, I post up on the other side of the island to watch. She swats at me when I pick up a can of fancy cocoa powder to read the label.
“I forgot to ask, but did you rob a grocery store on your way here?”
“No, this is all stuff I had at my place. Bakery owner, remember?” She points at herself with her whisk.
The edge of my mouth curls. “I remember. What are you making?”
“None of your business.” She ignores me, going as far as turning her back to tune me out.
“That’s fine if you don’t want to share any with me,” I tease. “I was just curious. You’ve always been so good at it. I like having the chance to watch you work up close.”
“You’ll make me self conscious. I’ll probably get the recipe wrong for the first time ever because you’re hovering,” she throws over her shoulder.
The tips of her ears have turned red. It’s cute how easily she gets flustered.
“I’ll just start guessing. Let’s see.” I survey the flour, eggs, and brown sugar. “Cake.”
“No.” She scoots around me to grab butter.
“Brownies.” I rub my stomach, getting hungry.
“Nope.” This time there’s a hint of humor in her voice.
Good. She’s enjoying the game. I pretend to think, pushing up the sleeves of my sweater and bracing my arms on the island. She pauses what she’s doing with parchment paper to sneak a look at my forearms from the corner of her eye.
“Pie?” I suggest.
“Try again,” she answers airily, nudging the ginger in front of me.
“Whatever it is, I know it’ll be delicious because you made it.”
Holly huffs without any heat. “Cookies. It’s not Christmas without homemade gingerbread cookies.” She hesitates, toying with the bow in her hair. “Do you want to try? You can bake with me.”
I hum in agreement. “Show me how.”
She pats her standing mixer. “This baby handled most of the work. I already made one batch of dough earlier that should be ready to bake by now. I’m mixing up one more batch. Grab the dough from the fridge.”
