Chapter 40 Say, Cookie
Claire
“The decorations look good,” I say as we approach Lolly’s booth.
“I’m just glad they didn’t kill me,” Lolly says, cutting a look toward Stella.
“I told you, you and Chip were the right people for the job,” Stella sings. “Now what did you make our king and queen?”
“Oh, I like that necklace,” Lolly says, ignoring her.
My hands find the small snowflake, and I run it along the chain. “Everett gave it to me last night.”
“It’s really—”
“Ladies, please focus. We do not have all day. Lolly, what did you make?” Stella cuts in.
“Peppermint bark, of course.” She smiles, tilting her head to the side.
On top of a Christmas plate covered with colorful lights and ornaments sits a stack of peppermint bark.
Unlike Chip’s, Lolly’s has only two layers of chocolate—milk and white—and on top is a mix of peppermint, red and green chocolate candies, and festive sprinkles.
A white chocolate drizzle zigzags across the tops of each piece.
It’s not cut perfectly, but instead broken into different sized pieces.
“This looks great,” I say, reaching for a piece at the same time Everett does.
“I want that one,” he says, our hands colliding. A spark shoots up my arm at the feel of his touch.
Popping up on my toes, I whisper into his ear, “I’ll do that thing with my tongue you like if I can have it.”
He swallows hard. “It’s all yours, babe.” I let out a snicker, and Lolly’s eyes crease as she studies me.
The candy is scrumptious, and the added texture from the sprinkles and chocolate candies make it even more delicious.
We pause for a photo, and then we move on to the next booth.
“We’ll catch up in a bit when this is all over,” I say, marking my scores.
“We better. I want all the details about last night,” she teases. “Good luck.”
Reid doesn’t offer a smile or greeting as we approach. His booth isn’t decorated like the others, and he has a small, white tray covered in marzipan fruits.
Everett’s eyes find mine, and he lifts a brow.
“Hi, Reid,” I try.
“Hello.”
“These look good,” Everett says, reaching out and taking one shaped like a lemon. He pops it in his mouth and wrinkles his nose. I watch as he does his best to pretend like he’s enjoying the candy as he slowly chews it and then swallows hard.
Picking up one shaped like a pear, I take a bite of the side of it, plastering on as much of a fake smile as I can as I chew.
It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever eaten, but it’s definitely not the best.
“Thank you,” I say, and we quickly score his entry. We all pose for a photo then move to the next booth.
“Please tell me whatever is next is going to be better than that,” Everett whispers.
“Stella?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Could we get a couple bottles of water?”
“Oh, of course. I’ll be right back.” She turns to leave as we approach Ginger’s booth.
“Hello, Nuttalls,” she trills.
“Did the kids help you make these?” I ask, eyeing the dessert. Messy icing and lots of sprinkles cover a plate full of sugar cookies—they look like Christmases past, and nostalgia hits me right in the chest.
Ginger’s children maze around us, playing in the snow. One of her girls stops and watches as Everett and I reach forward for a cookie.
“I helped make the green angel,” she says, flashing a toothy grin. “Try mine, Mrs. Claire.”
“Okay, sweetheart,” I say, taking an angel shaped cookie covered in green icing and pink sprinkles.
Reaching forward, Everett takes a red Christmas bell covered in green sprinkles.
It’s soft and chewy, and it unlocks a memory of making cookies with my grandmother as a little girl.
“Do you like my cookie,” the little girl asks.
“It’s very good,” I assure her.
Stella returns and hands both of us water. Sipping it, I do my best to judge the entry, but it feels harder than it should be.
“Let’s get a photo with The Nuttalls, Ginger, and all the kids,” Stella says, directing the photographer.
“Kids,” Ginger calls. “Ms. Stella wants a picture with Coach Everett and Mrs. Claire. Come on now.”
Everett and I move together in front of the counter. Ginger and her kids circle around us.
“Say cookie,” Ginger chimes.
We begin to move toward the last booth, and Everett’s hand finds mine.
“Judging some of these is harder than I thought it would be,” I admit. “I just feel like we’ve gotten to know these people, and I don’t want to hurt their feelings.”
He squeezes my hand. “They know we were given a job and it’s not personal, but I agree—I’m going to really miss everyone.”
“Me too.”
“Hey, lady,” Aster says, waving at us. “Ready to get your drink on?”
In front of her are two stemless wine glasses full of red liquid. Each one is topped with a sugared rosemary, a cinnamon stick, and pomegranate seeds.
“Finally, something that isn’t super sweet,” I say, taking one of the glasses. “What is it called?”
“A Mistletoe Kiss.”
“It looks so good.”
“It was super easy,” she says. “I’ll text you the recipe.”
“Please,” I say. Turning to face Everett, I lift my glass to toast with his.
“To whatever tomorrow brings,” he says.
“To tomorrow,” I repeat, clinking my glass against his. We both take a sip of the drink. The tart citrus flavors dance across my tongue, and the hint of vodka burns my throat.
“Damn,” Everett says, “That’s great.”
Aster smiles and shrugs her shoulders.
“It really is good,” I agree, taking another sip.
“Fantastic,” Stella bursts, clapping her hands. “Now you two pose with Aster, and then we’ll be all done with this part of the day. Feel free to enjoy the festivities, and I’ll meet you in front of the tree at”—she checks her watch—“seven sharp to announce the winner.”
I jot down my final scores and hand her back the clipboard, and Everett does the same. My heart sinks a little at how bittersweet it all feels.
“Enjoy your evening,” Stella says, walking away. “I hope it’s everything you ever wanted it to be.”
Seven dances down. One to go.