Page 34 of Holiday at Home
We finish dinner and open a bottle of wine. Simon cleans up while I set out ingredients for cookies. I move quickly and efficiently, using a recipe that’s been in the Sterling family for as long as anyone can remember. Simon leans against the counter,arms folded, chin in hands while he watches. Normally, I’d feel uncomfortable under so much scrutiny. But with Simon? It feels natural.
“You make it look so easy,” he says as I bring the dough together.
“It’s just sugar, flour, and butter. Literally anyone can do it.”
“Yeah, but not like you.”
Something in his voice has me blushing.
“I’ll show you how easy it is. I told you on the phone; we’re making these together.” I shove the bowl toward him and set out a sheet pan. “So, what are they gonna be? Snowmen? Christmas trees?”
“What about smiley faces? Those are basically just circles right?”
“Oh, come on, you can do so much more than circles.”
I show him my stash of cookie cutters, but Simon goes his own way, claiming freeform is the best form as he shapes the dough like it’s modeling clay. We pop the cookies into the oven, laughing as I prep icing. When we pull the first batch out, his cookies have melted into blobs, truly showing us the meaning offreeform.Once cooled, we start decorating and Simon narrates his attempts like a slightly drunk Bob Ross. Icing goes everywhere as he gestures wildly and I can’t stop laughing as a slash of red icing lands on his nose.
“Simon,” I say, breathless. “Hold still. Let me help.”
He cocks his head. “Help? My masterpieces don’t need help.”
I swipe the icing off his nose with my finger. He catches me by the wrist, eyes glimmering—warm and safe. There’s a moment of silence, of breath held, of bothyes pleaseandplease don’t. Then he slips the tip of my finger into his mouth and sucks off the icing. In that moment, every promise we made, every butterfly in my stomach, every reason I ever loved Simon Holiday floods through me. My resistance softens.
His arm slides around my waist. He pulls me close and I melt into him, our faces just inches apart in this moment outside of time, of past and present colliding, swirling together like a baker dragging a toothpick through icing.
“Tell me to stop and I will,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick with want.
I shake my head, chest heaving, eyes closing. “I don’t want you to stop.”
The space between us shrinks. His lips find mine, and his hand slides into my hair as our bodies press together. Fabric rustling, breath hitching. I part my lips so our tongues can dance and it is everything it’s always been and so much more. A new twist on a favorite melody. There’s a yearning and knowing and completing and the ache in my heart is soothed.
Instead of crying,why?
It simply sighs,yes.
I slide my hands under his shirt, fingers kneading the strong cords of muscle along his back. A soft moan rumbles from his chest. His hands grip my hips, lifting me onto the counter. There’s the clatter of glass against metal as baking utensils collide. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, needing more. He feels like the answer to every question, the solution to every problem. He always was, he always will be.
And then?—
The oven timer blares, shrill and insistent.
We both jerk, startled, then laugh breathlessly. Simon presses his forehead to mine, our mingled breaths still ragged, but the spell is broken.
“Guess the cookies are ready,” he murmurs, voice low, wry.
I slide down from the counter, smoothing my sweater, trying to gather myself. “Saved by the bell.”
But the warmth in his eyes makes it clear—we’re not out of danger. Not even close. I pull the cookies out of the oven and setthe tray on the rack to begin to cool, buying myself time to cool down as well.
Simon wraps an arm around my waist, his front to my back, kissing the top of my head. I lean into him, closing my eyes, enjoying the closeness and contact.
“Go out with me?” he murmurs. “Tomorrow. I can meet you when the bakery closes and we’ll walk to Town Square. They have their Christmas Market Fair. We can wander around and window shop like we used to.”
I wait for the litany of anxiety to go off with a thousand ways that idea could go wrong and am greeted only by silence. So I nod, smiling softly to myself.
“I’d love that.”
I lean back into him. He feels warm and strong and solid, like everything that’s been missing in my life. What’s wrong with letting myself enjoy it while I have it?
