Page 19 of A DIY Christmas Miracle
“Sounds like a plan. And we can’t forget the cookies.”
“Please, don’t remind me.” Will groaned – and fuck, he shouldn’t be allowed to make sounds like that in public. “I’m really not a good baker, and I’m afraid it’ll end up a disaster.
“Oh, I’m sure you’re exaggerating. You’ll see, it won’t be that bad.”
Four hours later, I had to admit it wasn’tnot that bad; it was actually much worse.
The decorating the living room part had been fun. We’d put up garlands together, decorated the tree with baubles and other ornaments, and hung the stockings on the mantel above the fireplace. It hadn’t been a problem at all. We listened to Christmas music and even sang along from time to time. My heart had been racing the whole time because it’d just been so light and fun and romantic. I just wished it were real.
And then we tried our hands at baking the damn cookies, and all the romance had given way to sheer and utter chaos.
“And now we just…”
“No!” I screamed, trying to intervene, but Will was already in the process of dumping flour right into the mixing bowl of the stand mixer — while it was running at full speed.
The next moment, in Will’s place, there was a ginormous white cloud, encasing everything in a one-foot radius.
I desperately tried to keep it together, but I failed miserably. A laugh bubbled out of me, then another one, and another one until I was full out laughing — not quietly chuckling, but loud and deep belly laughs.
Will started coughing and blindly reached for the switch to turn the damn mixer off.
“What the hell?” he muttered quietly, shaking his head, which created another, albeit smaller, cloud of flour around his head.
With a calmness I didn’t think I’d possess in this situation if the roles were reversed, he took his glasses off and started cleaning the lenses. You could clearly see where the glasses had been on his face because his skin and eyes were now visible but the rest of his face was still covered in flour.He kind of looked like a reverse-raccoon: he had a mask everywhere but around his eyes.
I wondered if he’d be mad if I pulled my phone out and… never mind. Will, his face and upper body covered in flour, shoulders drooping in defeat while cleaning his glasses, just looked… irresistibly cute. Besides, it wasn’t like I’d show the picture to someone else. I just wanted it for myself. For… reasons.
So, I quickly snapped one or two, but no more than three photos before Will turned to me, raising one of his currently white eyebrows.
“Did you just take a picture of me?”
“Uhm…no?” I answered, trying to hide my phone behind my back.
Will’s cheeks turned a deep red — seriously, they were glowing enough for me to see it through the layer of flour.
“Please don’t share it with the others,” he murmured quietly. “They won’t let me live it down all week.”
“I promise I won’t,” I said quickly. “The pics are just for me. Personal memories and stuff.” I winked at him before stepping closer to the source of this chaos — the stand mixer — and peered into the mixing bowl. It didn’t look like there was much flour incorporated in the dough at all.
“Great memory,” Will grumbled, then started wiping his face. “So, what do we do with the dough?”
“We’ll just weigh out new flour, turn the mixer on the lowest setting… you hear me, Will? Low, as in slow, and mix in the flour until the dough is… cookie-like? I think that’ll work.”
“And if it doesn’t?” Will didn’t sound convinced in the least. Not that I could blame him. Apparently, I wasn’t quite as much of a dud at baking as he was, but my knowledge basically ended withdon’t put flour or sugar into the mixer while it’s running on high.
“It’ll work out,” I reassured him, even though I had no business doing so, and tried giving him a confident smile.
“I told you it’d be safer to just let me read out the ingredients for you and let you do the rest. You’re the elementary school teacher here.”
“Yes, I teach children how to read and write. I’m not a home economics teacher,” I said, shrugging.
“Don’t you ever bake with your students?” Will looked at me with obvious disbelief.
I spared him a quick sideways glance but had to focus back on the mixer to prevent another flour-related disaster. I slowly scooped spoonfuls of flour into the bowl while the mixer was incorporating it on the lowest setting.
“Occasionally, yes.”
“And how do you do that if you can’t bake?”
