Page 47 of The Holiday Whoopie
Jack hums against my neck. “You’re pretty happy for someone who had her baking sanctuary violated.” He lifts his head, eyes skimming our crime/sex scene. “Not to mention every health code in Maine.”
He’s right. The me before Jack would’ve measured the risk, counted the cost, wrung the joy out of it until it looked like safety and success. The me before Jack would’ve needed a return on investment.
I swipe a finger across my frosting-smeared hip and hold it up. “Seven, at least.” I touch it to his lips. “Exhibit A.”
He then licks it clean with a wicked grin.
My heart does a somersault.
I think about this morning, about how I dodged his eyes like I could avoid gravity, like pretending not to want him would make it true. I think about Eileen’s knowing look, the town’s gossip, and my mother always urging me to be safe and precise.
The plan has always been “do it right.” The path has always been “don’t mess it up.” But right now the only thing that feels right is messy and sweet and a little ridiculous.
He kisses me again—slow this time, a tasting-me kiss, ayou’re-not-alonekiss. My chest pinches with an ache as it expands. Giving me more room to breathe. To enjoy.
Skimming my sides, his hands ease me upright, shifting me higher onto the table while he pulls out of me. Then,kissing my knee, he bends to make sure my fuzzy socks are in place like they’re—I’m—precious cargo.
And I realize, with a tiny shock, that I’m… happy. Noteverything’s great, thanks for askingwhile I tally shortfalls in my head. But in-this-moment-enjoying-life happy.
“Should we be worried about customers?” Jack steps back, grabbing his shirt off the ground.
“Making Whoopie is closed for the day.” I move to get down, but Jack stops me by putting his shirt over my head. Once my arms are in, he lifts me off the table, setting me down gently.
I move in a circle, careful to avoid cookie cutter shrapnel. “Which is probably a good thing.”
“Hideaway Harbor is resilient.” He nods solemnly, finding my Crocs by the door and slipping them on my socked feet. “And well-frosted.”
“Over-frosted.” I glance at the carnage of piping bags. “I’m going to have to disinfect every square inch.”
“I’ll help.” His promise lands warm, making me smile.
I plant a hand on the counter and lean into it, for once at ease with sharing my space with someone. “Oh, you’ll help, Hollywood.”
His gaze drags over my mouth, slow and heated, before he hooks an arm around my waist and pulls me in, kissing me.
We don’t get around to cleaning up until much, much later.
SUSTAINED
Audrey
It’s hot.
Not the usual I-slept-under-too-many-blankets kind, but the solid, steady warmth of a man stretched out beside me, his arm heavy around my waist like he’s holding me in place. Which—let’s be real—he kind of is.
Normally on a Monday morning I’d already be in my kitchen, elbows deep in batter, juggling invoices with one hand and a whisk with the other, wondering when I’ll have time to get groceries. Even on my “day off,” there’s dough to test, emails to answer, a spreadsheet whispering my name.
But not today.
Today, I’m tucked against Jack Lourd, Hollywood shark turned unexpected bed-warmer, and I’m staying put. I don’t spring out of bed. I don’t even check the time. I just breathe in the faint scent of my rosemary mint shampoo clinging to hishair from yesterday’s much-needed shower after our rampant kitchen sex and let myself have the novelty of lying still.
Jack’s hand shifts against my stomach, fingers curling with sleepy instinct. The move sends a slow ripple of awareness through me. My heart stutters, my body already remembering every place his mouth lingered last night.
“Morning.” His breath tickles my ear, his voice rough with sleep.
“Morning.” My whisper comes out more like a sigh than a greeting. I’m exhausted—happily so—and content to let go of my plans for laundry, bookkeeping, maybe finally facing the disaster that is my spice cupboard.
For a long, perfect stretch of minutes, neither of us moves. And when we finally do, it’s not to get out of bed. It’s to tangle closer, to kiss slowly and lazily, to remind ourselves that frosting isn’t the only thing worth licking off skin.
