Page 27 of Back to December
“That’s just it, Holden. You’ve already got your hands full.”
“I do. But I have McKenna. And this sounds like something we could advertise on the farm. I think it would do great at The Storybook Cafe.”
Her eyes lift to mine. “You don’t have to say that.”
“When have you ever known me to say something just to make you feel better?”
“You’re always trying to make me feel better.” She sighs. “But you’re always honest with me.”
I used to think love was supposed to feel like adrenaline—fast, burning red. With her now, it feels slow. Golden. Steady.
“Where did you get this idea? Have you seen it somewhere before?”
Her face changes then, softening with happiness. “We really need to get you on more social media. Lots of bakeries do them. Emma does them.”
“She does?”
This instantly piques my interest.
Our weekend last December in Sweetheart Springs was memorable for a lot of reasons, but getting to meet my favorite “celebrity chef” was definitely in my top five. Laila bought me a signed cookbook as a Christmas present, and it’s one of my most prized possessions.
Not that Laila wouldevergive me bad advice, but Emma selling them from her own bakery on Dreamy Pines Farm only substantiates her point. She could’ve just started with that.
Laila shifts her iPad to one hand and raises her other hand to cup my cheek.
“You sweet man. I’m pretty sure you’ve got heart eyes now. You’re adorably oblivious sometimes about these things.”
“Adorable enough to kiss?” I tip forward.
She giggles. “Is that sanitary? That feels like a code violation.”
“Hold on.” With a few steps, I’ve herded us back toward the hall that leads up to the apartment. “Now you’re not technically in the kitchen anymore.”
She lets out a small gasp. “Oh! What if you did boxes of pernícky? I know they only use a simple glaze?—”
“Honey, I’m not really interested in talking about cookies right now, but you being so informed about our Christmas cookie speciality is really attractive.”
The whole kitchen smells like cinnamon and sugar again—our kind of compass. If home had a scent, it’d be this.
She’s backed against the doorway, and I press a hand above her head so I’ve got her boxed in. Technically, she could duck under my arm and play hard to get, but I don’t think she wants that any more than I do. A smile plays around her lips knowingly.
“Is it?”
“You know it is. I didn’t know you paid that much attention.”
Her tongue darts out to wet her lips before she presses them together. “I’m always paying attention when it comes to you,” she whispers.
I don’t know why, but this admission feels like something I should frame and hang on my wall. She’s never this honest with me.
“What else do you notice?” I ask.
Her eyelashes flutter as she gazes up at me. “You love those little gingerbread pigs—what are they called?”
My breath shudders. “Those are called Marranitos and they’re actually Mexican desserts.”
She tips her head up, inviting me closer. “They’re really cute. You always keep them in a tin on top of your fridge toward the back, like they’re supposed to be a secret.”
“I’m not sure my mom would approve.”
