Chapter 8
LUCAS
Ipull up to the bakery at six thirty, a full thirty minutes late on purpose.
If Holiday wants to work with me, she can learn right now that I don’t follow her rules. The bakery lights glow golden against the darkening sky. Through the window, I can see her moving around inside, already prepping like the overachiever she’s always been.
I sit in my truck for another five minutes, just to make a point.
My phone buzzes, and it’s Holiday, which is a surprise. I unblocked her number a few days ago so we could chat about when we’d bake.
Holiday
Hurry up.
Lucas
On my way. Relax.
Holiday
You’re purposely wasting my time.
Lucas
And?
I pocket my phone and climb out. The November air is cold enough that my breath fogs. Christmas lights twinkle on the trees across the lot, and somewhere by the gift shop, Bing Crosby croons from the outdoor speakers.
I push open the bakery door. The bell jingles, and Holiday looks up from the kitchen in the back where she’s arranging ingredients.
She’s wearing jeans and an old Merryville High sweatshirt, the same one from our senior year.
Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, no makeup.
She’s even tied her apron the same way she always did—loose knot at the back, strings wrapped tightly around her waist. I watched her tie that knot a thousand times when we worked together at the county fair booth.
When she’d lean against me while we waited for the next customer, smelling like cinnamon and sugar.
The memory hits me like a physical blow.
I hate that seeing her like this makes something tighten in my chest.
“You’re disrespectfully late,” she says.
“Great. That’s the level I was hoping for.” I shrug off my jacket and toss it on a stool. “Let’s get this over with.”
Her eyes roll. “Wow. Love the attitude.”
“You want me to pretend I’m happy to be here?” I give her a sarcastic smile, then move to the counter, deliberately invading her space.
I scan the ingredients she’s laid out. Flour, sugar, butter, eggs, vanilla extract, and chocolate chips. Basic. Safe.
“Chocolate chip cookies?”
“I was thinking we’d start with something classic. Test our combined skills on something simple—”
“I think the fuck not.”
She blinks. “Excuse me?”
“We’re not doing a boring chocolate chip cookie. We don’t have time to waste, Holiday. Let’s start with something that stands out and build from there.” I lean against the counter. “You’ve been gone a long time.”
Her eyes flash. “I competed professionally in Paris. I think I know what wins baking competitions worldwide.”
“This isn’t some fancy European competition where judges care about technique and presentation.” I cross my arms. “This is Merryville. Not sure you can relate.”
Her face goes white, then red. “Don’t you dare.”
“Want to talk about the engagement you couldn’t commit to? Seems relevant. Just proves my point that you have commitment issues.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“So predictable. Something gets hard, you run. How long did that engagement last, anyway? Three years? Right on time. That’s when you start getting bored and need something more exciting in your relationships.” I shake my head. “That’s what we call a cycle.”
“You don’t want to talk about this.”
“After all this time, you’re still a red flag.”
She grabs a bag of flour and slams it on the counter so hard, a cloud of white explodes everywhere. It coats her sweatshirt, dusts her hair, and settles on both of us like snow.
“Red is still your favorite color,” she says, unamused.
I cough, waving flour out of my face. “Real mature, HoHo.”
“Stop bringing up my personal life like you have any right to know about it.”
“It’s hard when we’re forced together and—”
“We were forced together by your manipulative grandmother. That doesn’t give you the right to throw my failed engagement in my face. There, I said it. You’re right. Is that what you want?”
I brush flour off my flannel. “Did you call it off, or did he? That’s the answer I couldn’t ever get out of anyone.”
Her hands curl into fists. “None of your damn business.”
“I’ll eventually find out.” I move closer. “Bet it was you.”
“Don’t you even,” she snaps with venom in her voice. “Why haven’t you dated anyone in a few years? What’s your excuse?”
I freeze. “That’s different.”
“Heard you started cycling through women when you learned I got engaged.”
“I absolutely did no—”
“No?” She steps forward, closing the distance between us. “Small town, remember? You may know details about me, but trust me, I’ve heard so much about you, too. Grow up, Lucas.”
The silence stretches.
“You know what,” I finally say, my voice rough. “You don’t get to act like I’m the bad guy for protecting myself.”
“Protecting yourself? You ghosted me, Lucas. You owed me an explanation.”
“I told you if you started dating someone else, I’d know you were done.”
The air between us crackles with years of unresolved hurt.
I take a step closer. “Then you used me as your fuck toy when you came home for the holidays.”
“And? You enjoyed fucking me, knowing I was with someone else. You knew I was weak for you, and you never once told me no. Actually, I recall us promising to secretly spend every Christmas together.” She blinks at me, not giving a damn. “Maybe I should tell everyone the truth.”
“You’re so damn dense. Even now.”
She backs away from that conversation. It’s clear she’s not ready to discuss it yet.
“I think we should make a sea salt caramel chocolate chip cookie. Elevated but familiar,” I say, needing to change the topic so we can be done and leave.
She opens her mouth to argue, then closes it. “I’m in charge of presentation and technique.”
“And I’m in charge of—”
“This isn’t your area of expertise. Remember, you’re here because you want to be,” she says.
“Maybe,” I say, moving closer, backing her against the counter, “you could quit. Make this easier for everyone.”
Her chin lifts as her back touches the surface. “Won’t be me who quits.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s a promise. You won’t be able to handle me for five weeks.”
Something flashes in her eyes—pure anger. “You’ll have to do more than showing up late and trying to use my past against me.”
She steps forward, closing the distance. We’re toe to toe now, and I can smell vanilla and sugar on her skin. The same scent she wore when we were teenagers.
“I plan on making this a living hell for you, too.”
The words hang between us. “It already is,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Love to hear it.”
The music shifts to “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” At one point in our lives, it was our song. The one we used to dance to outside my truck on a back lot away from everything, her head on my shoulder, both of us pretending we had forever.
When she hears it, her eyes soften, but she turns the music off.
“Jerk,” she mutters, turning away.
I let it slide. Mostly because she’s right.
Holiday starts measuring flour and aggressively slams it into a mixing bowl. Another cloud explodes over the counter, coating us both again.
“You’re making a mess.”
“Not like you’re going to clean it up.”
“You’re right about that.”
She spins around, wooden spoon in hand like a weapon. “Do you want to do this? Because I can walk out right now.”
“Please do. Save us both the trouble,” I say, lifting my hand toward the door. “I’ll lock up.”
“No.” She jabs the spoon toward me. “I need this money, and I’m going to earn it. With or without your cooperation. You can stand there and look pretty for all I care.”
“What do you need five thousand dollars for? Plane ticket back to Paris?”
Her nostrils flare. “Again, that’s none of your business.”
“What makes you desperate enough to put up with me for five weeks?”
Something flickers across her face, and she exhales. “New York.”
“What?”
“The money would cover moving expenses and first month’s rent.” She says it like she’s confessing something. “I need to win this. Then I can grant you your wish and disappear like you’ve wanted since I returned.”
“Yes!” I do a mock celebration. “Thank you!”
New York. I knew she was already planning her escape.
“Must be real nice,” I say, my voice without any emotion. “Always going somewhere else. Some new city where you don’t have to deal with your past.”
“That’s not—”
“Save it.” I move to the stove, start pulling out pots for the caramel. “Let’s just get this over with.”
The silence is tense. Holiday cracks eggs with more force than necessary. One splatters, and pieces of the shell fall into the bowl.
“You gonna fish that out?”
“Lucas, I swear to—”
“What?”
“You’re not helping. You’re hovering and criticizing and giving me attitude. You’re worse than first-year culinary students. You wouldn’t last five minutes baking for real.” She fishes out the shell with her finger, flinging it into the trash. “But if you’re going to be here, at least be useful.”
“Fine. What do you want me to do?”
“Make the caramel. And don’t burn it.”
I bite back a comment and focus on the task. Sugar, water, butter. I’ve watched Mawmaw make this a hundred times.
The mixture starts bubbling, turning from clear to amber. I stir it, noticing the color darkening.
“Stir it more and turn the heat down,” Holiday says from behind me. She’s so close I can feel her breath on my neck. “It’s going to burn.”
“I know what I’m doing,” I snap.
“Really? Because it’s already too dark.”
The smell hits us both at the same time. Bitter.
“Shit.” I yank the pan off the heat, but it’s too late. The caramel is ruined.
“Told you,” Holiday says, but there’s no smugness. Just exhaustion.
I dump it in the trash and grab a clean pot to start over. This time, Holiday stands next to me, close enough that our elbows bump.
“Slow and steady,” she says, turning the heat down.