Chapter 4 #2
I close my eyes briefly, forcing the memories back down where they belong. When I open them, Cookie's watching me with an expression I can't read.
“Wanna help?” she asks, and I rise to my feet without speaking.
I place plates where she needs them, watching her hands move. She's good at this—confident, and clearly capable. She’s not performing for anyone; she’s just doing what she loves.
By the third batch, the cabin smells like heaven, and I'm starting to forget why I locked myself up here in the first place.
I pass behind her to tend the fire. My shoulder brushes hers—it’s barely any contact at all really, but it's enough to make me hyperaware of every inch of space between us.
A spoon slips and frosting flies through the air, landing on my cheekbone.
We both freeze.
Her eyes go wide. "Oh my goodness! I’m so sorry!"
I can’t move. The frosting is cold on my skin, but her proximity is burning me alive.
"Let me—" She sets the bowl down and steps closer.
This is a bad idea; I should step back and create some distance between us. I need to remember all the reasons I don't let people this close.
Yet, I don't move.
She reaches up, her thumb soft against my cheek, and I forget how to breathe. Her pulse flutters at her wrist, fast and frantic. Being this close to her is breaking something open inside me, something I've kept locked down for too long.
"Got it." Her smile is wide, bright, and completely unaware of what she's doing to me.
My gaze drops to her mouth without permission. "You missed a spot."
"What? Where?"
Gently, I wrap my fingers around her wrist, giving her time to pull away, before bringing her thumb to my mouth.
Her breath catches.
I lick the sugar from her skin, slow and deliberate, watching her eyes go dark. She tastes like vanilla and butter and every bad decision I'm about to make.
"Mm. Sweet."
What the actual fuck am I doing?
"The frosting?" Her voice comes out all breathless and sexy.
Fuck. Me.
"Both."
Ah, shut up, man. You’re not helping yourself here.
The oven timer shrieks, shattering the moment.
Thank fuck.
We jump apart like we've been electrocuted. She throws herself at the stove, and I rake a hand through my hair, trying to remember how to think.
What the hell was that?
"Right—cookies. Focus." She's talking to herself, not me, and her hands shake slightly as she pulls out the tray.
Okay, good. It’s not just me—she’s affected too.
She glances at me once—quick, uncertain—like she's trying to figure out if what just happened was real or if she imagined the whole thing. Then she turns back to the cookies, her signature smile firmly back in place.
I clear my throat. "Look, you started it."
"I didn’t mean to launch buttercream at you." She's laughing now, the sound unsteady. "But you licked my thumb!"
The corner of my mouth twitches. "We'll call it even."
"Truce." She slides the tray out, keeping her hands busy. "Do you want to help me frost these?"
I eye the bowl like it might explode. "I'm not exactly delicate."
"You don't need to be delicate. You need to be generous." She hands me a butter knife. "Swoop and swirl. Think snowdrifts."
My first attempt looks like an avalanche. The second is worse. The third is barely passable, and I'm starting to understand why I stick to woodworking. I huff, pissed.
"Here, let me.” She slides beside me, shoulder to shoulder, and demonstrates. "Start in the center, press, then ease up as you drag out."
She guides my wrist without touching, our movements mirroring. I adjust, and the frosting behaves for once, forming something that almost looks intentional.
"You make it look easy," I mutter.
"It's just practice." She shrugs. "And not caring if a few turn out ugly because ugly cookies still taste good, don't they?"
Wait—she's not talking about cookies anymore, is she?
We work quietly after that. Her humming fills the space—something Christmasy I don't recognize. Bear inches closer until she breaks and gives him a plain cookie. The storm howls outside, but in here, it's warm.
Dangerous, almost.
She scoops frosting onto her knife, eyes glinting with mischief. "Truly even?"
I eye the weapon. "Don't."
"Seems wasteful."
"Cookie."
"Red."
She flicks toward my forearm. I catch her wrist mid-arc, both of us staring at the frosting trembling on the blade. My grip is firm—not hard, but enough to feel her pulse hammering against my fingers.
"Truce.” I mean it.
She swallows and nods. "Okay."
I release her slowly, and the frosting loses its grip. She tilts the knife to save it, but her ankle slides on the flour-dusted floor.
She yelps.
My training kicks in before thought does. One arm wraps around her waist, hauling her against me before she can fall. The knife clatters on the counter, and suddenly she's pressed against my chest, her hands flat on my shirt, her breaths coming fast.
"Careful," I growl.
The sound surprises me. Surprises her too, if the way her eyes widen is any indication, but the feeling of her in my arms does something to me. I grip her so tight my knuckles ache. The last person I held like this, protected like this, didn't make it home. I couldn't save him.
I won't make that mistake again.
I should let go and step back, maybe put some distance between us before this goes somewhere it can't come back from.
But I don't.
My grip is protective and possessive in a way I have no right to feel. She smells so damn good it’s making me forget my own name. Her fingers curl against my chest, not pushing away, her heart racing against mine.
"I've got you,” I murmur, gazing into those warm hazel eyes.
There's flour dusting my shoulder from where she grabbed me—a mark, proof she was here, that this is real.
Her lips part. "Do you?"
I nod without thinking. "Yeah."
We stand there for far too long. The space between us shrinks to nothing, and I'm staring at her mouth, wondering if she tastes as good as she smells.
My fingers flex at her waist—just once—and heat flares in her eyes.
Do it. Kiss her. Stop thinking and just—
No.
I ease her upright and step back, forcing more distance between us even though every instinct screams at me to pull her closer.
"Thanks."
I nod, not trusting my voice. "The floor's slippery. Be careful."
"You're bossy." She smiles, but her gaze darts around me like she can’t meet my eyes.
"I'm cautious,” I correct her.
Our eyes meet, and something passes between us—understanding, maybe, or acknowledgment that we're both lying to ourselves about what just happened.
I turn away before I can do something stupid.
We finish frosting without further incident, but I'm hyperaware of every movement she makes. The memory of her body against mine burns under my skin, and fuck if I don’t want more.
Cookie packages cookies for Beth, sets aside a plate for tonight, then wraps the rest with the professionalism of a seasoned baker. The storm settles into a steady flurry outside. I check doors and windows; anywhere cold might creep in.
Anything to keep my mind busy.
She disappears and returns wearing my sweater. It falls to mid-thigh, skimming her curves in a way that makes my mouth go dry. Her bare legs, her toes curling against the cold floor—
Fucking Jesus.
I look away. "Feeling any warmer?"
"Much. Thank you."
I tend the fire like it personally offended me.
She brings over a plate with two cookies and holds one out. I hesitate, then take it. Our fingers brush—deliberately, I think, but I'm not sure anymore. I could be imagining this.
I bite into the cookie, and flavor explodes across my tongue. Cinnamon, butter, vanilla, sugar. It's perfect—better than perfect; it’s the best damn cookie I’ve ever had.
My eyes close briefly as I savor it, and when I open them, she's watching me, her fingers twisting together like she gives a shit what I think.
"They’re good."
She beams. "That’s high praise coming from you."
We eat, and she talks about the bakery—telling me stories about ovens and regulars and the rhythm of her days.
I don't offer much back, but I listen. Actually listen, instead of waiting for her to leave like I do with everyone else. Because she’s interesting.
Fascinating even—I love how positive she is, even though we’re complete opposites.
It's… refreshing.
"Beth says you taught her how to make apple turnovers when she was little."
I still, the memory hitting me in the chest. "I used to."
"You're good with your hands." She flushes, and I watch color creep up her neck. "I mean—with wood and tools. Your frosting improved, too."
My gaze locks on hers. "So are you."
The words hang between us, loaded with meaning neither of us acknowledges.
I bet she can do more with those hands too. I can’t help but imagine them wrapped around my cock as she looks up at me…
Christ!
The wind howls and the fire cracks. Bear snores in the corner. The mountain throws everything it has at my walls, but inside, we're safe. Away from the world.
That's the problem. In here with her, it's too easy to forget why I built these walls in the first place.
She yawns and rubs her eyes.
"Bedtime.”
“For both of us,” she says pointedly. “You’re in the bed too, remember?”
The aches and pains in my back refuse to let me argue. “I’ll be there soon.”
She gathers plates and cooling racks, tidying the kitchen with quick efficiency. Then folds the Santa dress and tucks it out of sight. When she slides under my quilt, I have to look away from the image of her in my bed, surrounded by my scent, her hair spreading across my pillow.
I kill the lamps one by one until only firelight remains, until I can’t busy myself anymore.
All I can think of is her.
"Red?"
I turn my head toward the bed. I can't see her clearly in the dimness, but I can feel her gaze.
"Thank you for not letting me fall earlier."
I chuckle softly. "You were never going to hit the floor."
Not on my watch, anyway.
Then she says, "I know."
I close my eyes, not sure what this warm feeling pooling in my belly is but liking it all the same. I slide into bed beside her, trying my darndest not to touch her in any way.
"Goodnight, Cookie."
"Goodnight, Red.".
I close my eyes and listen to her breathing slow as she falls asleep.
Bear snores while the storm rages outside.
The mantle clock ticks past midnight. Christmas Day becomes the day after Christmas while I sit here in the dark, watching shadows dance on the ceiling.
And I lie in bed, wide awake, knowing tomorrow I'll have to face what I've been avoiding since she knocked on my door.
I don't want her to leave.
That's the problem.
I don't want her to leave at all.