Chapter 8 #2
Her hand closes over mine on the wooden spoon, guiding my movement. Her fingers are warm, and for a second, I remember what it felt like when she used to touch me like this. When we’d bake together at Mawmaw’s house, her teaching me how to fold dough, both of us laughing when I’d mess it up.
Natural. Like we fit together.
She realizes how close she is and jerks her hand away like she’s been burned.
“You’ve got it,” she says, her voice strained. “Just like that.”
I don’t respond. Can’t. Because my skin is still tingling where she touched me, and I hate it. Hate that my body remembers even when my mind is screaming to forget.
The caramel turns out perfect, and I pull it off the heat.
“Much better,” Holiday says.
We work in silence, both trying to ignore how small this kitchen is. Every movement brings us closer together. In this short amount of time, we’ve developed a careful dance of not touching, not looking, not acknowledging the charged air.
Holiday portions out the cookie dough while I prep the caramel drizzle. Our hands keep almost touching when we both reach for something—the spatula, the salt, the baking sheets—and every time, we jerk away.
“Roll them bigger,” I say.
“They’re the right size,” she throws back.
“They’re too small. We need to make an impression.”
“Lucas, I’ve been doing this for—”
“Size fucking matters, okay?”
She glares but rolls the next one bigger. Slams it onto the baking sheet hard enough that it flattens too much.
“Now you’re just being a brat,” I say.
I grab the dough and start rolling it into a ball.
Holiday snatches it from my hands. “You’re being a bitch,” I continue.
“You’re being too critical!” she throws back.
“Maybe if you actually listened—”
“I’m the professional here! You’re just—” She stops, breathing hard.
“Just what?”
“Just someone who can’t let go of the past long enough to see what’s right in front of him.”
Her words are a stab to the heart.
Before I can respond, a knock on the window makes us both jump.
Hudson stands outside, waving. Grinning. He points at his phone, and mine buzzes with a text.
Hudson
You two look like you’re having fun.
Lucas
Go away.
Hudson
Do you need a referee?
Lucas
Worry about yourself.
Hudson
How about you keep it down? Pretty sure the whole farm can hear you fighting.
He looks up at me and grins, then goes back to typing.
Hudson
We’re about to go to the snack shack and make popcorn.
I immediately send him a middle finger emoji.
I glance at Holiday, who’s glaring at Hudson through the window. She flips him off. Hudson laughs and sends me another text.
Hudson
You’re both so much alike it’s scary.
He walks away, but not before giving me a look that says we’ll talk about this later.
“Your family is nosy,” Holiday mutters.
“You used to love my family.”
“Oh, I still love them. But you? Absolutely fucking not.”
We finish rolling the cookies in hostile silence. She slides two trays into the oven, sets the timer, and we wait.
Holiday leans against the counter on one side. I mirror her position on the other, maximizing the distance in this limited space.
“We can’t keep fighting like this,” I say.
“What do you expect from me, Lucas?” She pushes off the counter. “To say I’m sorry for leaving? That I regret Paris? That I should’ve stayed in Merryville and lived the small-town life?” Her voice rises with each sentence.
“Yes,” I say, my voice low.
“I’m not sorry. I needed to leave. I needed to see what else was out there. And if that makes me selfish, then fine. I’m selfish.”
The confession hangs between us. Too raw.
Holiday stares at me, her eyes wide. “Lucas—”
“Finally, the truth.” I give her a slow applause.
The timer goes off.
Saved by the bell. Literally.
Holiday pulls the cookies out, and I can tell something’s wrong. The edges are dark brown, almost burnt, while the centers are still pale and underbaked.
“What the hell?” Holiday stares at them.
“The oven was too hot. Did you bake them at three fifty?”
“I baked them at three seventy-five. I know this oven. I’ve been using it for two weeks.” Her face falls because she knows I’m right.
“We just ruined an entire batch.”
“We?” She spins around. “You’re the one who insisted on making them bigger!”
“Yeah? Well, you’re the expert!” I use air quotes with the last word.
We’re yelling now, both red-faced and furious. The burnt cookies sit between us, evidence of our failure.
“And you’re the one who keeps questioning everything I do! If you’d just let me work—”
“If you’d listen to someone who actually knows—”
“You don’t know anything! You just think you do because your family wins every year!”
“And you think you know everything because you went to Paris!” The words explode out of me.
“Newsflash, Holiday, but you failed there, too. That’s why you’re back here, working in a small-town bakery instead of some fancy Michelin-star restaurant.
That’s why you need the contest money to run away again.
Because you couldn’t make this work, either. ”
The words are cruel, meant to hurt her.
And they do. Her face goes white, then turns red after a few seconds. Her hands curl into fists, and for a minute, I think she might actually knock me the fuck out. I’d deserve it.
“You want to know why I left Paris?” Her voice shakes. “Because I was engaged to a man who controlled every aspect of my life. Who told me when to work, what to cook, who to talk to, and what to wear. He made me feel like I was never good enough, never talented enough, never enough, period.”
She steps closer, and there are tears in her eyes now, but her voice is steel.
“And you know what the worst part is? The way you’re acting reminds me of him.
He also tried to make me feel like I was abandoning him, betraying him, choosing my dreams over him.
It’s funny that when some people can’t get what they want from you anymore, they say you’re the selfish one, when maybe they are. ”
She’s breathing hard now, and so am I.
“So yeah, Lucas. I failed at being engaged. I failed at a lot of things. But at least I can also say I tried. At least I took the risk instead of hiding and pretending the world doesn’t exist beyond the tree line of the farm.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
I can’t breathe or think. Her words ricochet through my head like bullets.
The way you’re acting reminds me of him.
He treated her like he hated her. The thought makes my jaw clench tight.
“Now leave,” she says, her voice breaking. “I can’t do this.”
“Holiday—”
“No. I need you to leave. Right now. Before I say something I’ll regret.”
I should argue and defend myself. Should explain that I never meant to make her feel that way.
But I can’t. Because some part of me knows she’s right.
“Glad to be done,” I say. I pause at the door, my hand on the handle. “I meant what I said about breaking you. I will keep trying until you quit this competition or leave town. Hopefully both.”
I walk out before she can respond.
The November air hits me like a freight train. I suck in a breath, trying to clear my head, but all I can smell is burnt sugar and vanilla and remember the feel of her hand on mine.
I climb into my truck and sit there, hands gripping the steering wheel. My heart is racing. My chest feels tight. And I can’t shake her words.
She was engaged to a man who made her feel like she was never enough.
Did I do that to her? I never wanted her to choose between me and her dreams. But I guess she did in the end.
Through the bakery window, I can see Holiday. She’s standing in the middle of the kitchen, and her shoulders are shaking.
She’s crying.
Because of me.
I should apologize. I should tell her I didn’t mean it, that I was hurt and angry and lashing out.
But I don’t. Because seeing her cry just makes me angrier—angrier at myself for being the asshole, angrier at her for making me feel guilty, angrier that after all these years she can still get to me like this.
A few minutes later, after she’s finished cleaning up, my phone buzzes.
Holiday
I’m not quitting this competition or leaving town right away. You better get used to seeing my face during the holidays.
I stare at the text. Even after everything, she’s not backing down.
Lucas
See you next week, Peaches.
Holiday
Call me that again and I’m poisoning you.
Lucas
Great. Can you do that soon? Put me out of my misery.
I love the smiley at the end. It’s a nice touch.
I start the truck, but before I flick on the lights, Holiday walks out of the bakery. She gets in her car and just sits there.
I watch as she leans forward, pressing her forehead against the steering wheel.
All this time, I’ve been so focused on my own anger; I never considered that maybe she’s actually struggling.
She starts her car, and the engine rumbles to life, but she doesn’t move. Holiday just sits there like she’s gathering the strength to drive home.
I should leave. Should get out of here before she sees me watching her.
But I can’t make myself move.
Finally, Holiday lifts her head and wipes her eyes. She puts the car in reverse and pulls away.
I wait until her taillights disappear down the drive before I follow.
The whole way home, all I can think about is her hand on mine. How natural it felt before we both remembered we hate each other.
I spent fifteen years trying to forget Holiday Patterson.
Five weeks of this, and I’m either going to break her or break myself trying.
And I can’t decide which one pisses me off more.