Chapter 9 #2
I should say no. Alcohol and Lucas, and this house and old memories sound like a recipe for disaster.
“Yeah. Sure,” I say, not caring.
He pulls out a bottle that looks expensive. He pours two glasses and slides one across the counter to me.
The whiskey burns down my throat in the best way.
“Damn, that’s good,” I say, needing it to work.
He shoots the whole glass down and then fills it again.
The timer goes off, and Lucas grabs oven mitts to pull out the trays. The cookies are perfect—golden brown, the fudge centers just visible where they cracked slightly during baking.
“These look incredible,” Lucas says, leaning in close to inspect them.
“Hope they taste good.”
We keep drinking while waiting for them to cool. Lucas pours us both another round without asking.
“You trying to get me drunk, Jolly?” I ask.
“Maybe.” His eyes meet mine, and there’s something there—a challenge, a question. “Or maybe I just need to take the edge off.”
“Edge off what?”
“My personal hell.” He takes another drink.
I study him, wanting to say something, but let it slide. I break one of the cookies in half and take a bite.
The crispy chocolate chip exterior gives way to the rich, gooey fudge center. It’s perfect.
“Holy shit,” I say around the bite. The texture is crispy and soft, a delicious combination.
“Are they good?”
I hold out the other half. “Try it for yourself.”
He takes it from me, our fingers brushing for just a second longer than necessary. He bites into it, and I watch his expression change.
“Damn,” he mutters.
“Right?”
“This tastes incredible.” He looks at me, tilting his head. “How did you know to do that?”
“Instinct. Years of training. Being better than you.” I grin. “Take your pick.”
“All of the above, apparently.” He pours us both another drink. “We’re actually going to win this thing.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I’m not. You’re annoyingly good at everything you do.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“It’s a fact.” He leans against the counter, those tattooed arms on full display. There’s an edge to his voice, but it’s not entirely hostile. It’s something else.
“For someone who claims he can’t bake with measuring cups, you did a good job. Great dough.”
“I used to bake a lot with this girl I knew. She taught me all the basics,” he says.
“Yeah?” I ask, thinking about old times. “What happened to her?”
“She disappeared.” His eyes meet mine, and my face heats.
I don’t want to get hung up on that, so don’t respond.
We work in silence as we clean up our mess, but it’s less tense now. The whiskey loosens up both of us.
“Remember when we made those gingerbread cookies that got us detention?” I ask.
“The dick cookies? Yeah, Mawmaw still brings that up sometimes.” He smiles. “Six inchers. Can’t believe you even added—”
“Don’t finish that sentence.”
“—veins.”
I’m laughing. “They tasted great, though.”
“It was the best week of detention ever,” he says. “We got to fuck off the entire week.”
“Remember how you used to draw tiny dicks randomly in my notebooks?”
“Payback.” He’s laughing now, and I forgot what his real laugh sounds like. Not the polite chuckle, but the genuine one that makes his eyes crinkle. It feels like we’re just two old friends reminiscing. If only…
The laughter fades, and I realize we’re standing close. Really close.
His eyes drop to my mouth, then back up.
“Holiday,” he says, his voice a growl.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t.”
I look up at him, studying those green eyes that have haunted me since we were kids. And I close the distance between our mouths. Slowly, I move in, our lips just inches apart. My eyes close as I gently slide my lips against his.
He goes completely still, but I feel his sharp intake of breath.
His lips are soft against mine, but frozen, not moving, not responding, not kissing me back.
Lucas’s whole body tenses like every muscle is locked.
His fingers press harder into the counter behind me.
Then I feel him lean forward, his body betraying what his lips won’t admit.
His breathing changes, becoming ragged and heavy.
I feel the exhale against my mouth, warm and shaky.
But his lips stay still. A wall I can’t break through.
I pull back, and his eyes open.
He gives me a shit-eating grin.
“What exactly did you think would happen?” He sounds amused.
My face burns hotter.
“Go ahead. Tell me.” He’s still close, and he rests his hand on my hip. “You thought you’d kiss me and I’d what? Just fall at your feet and worship you?”
“Hoped,” I say, not giving a fuck.
His eyes drag down to my mouth and focus on it. “You want me so badly you can barely stand it.”
My breath catches because he’s right, and we both know it.
“And you know what’s really funny?” He leans in closer, his lips almost touching mine. “Part of me wanted to kiss you back just to fuck with you. But I’m not playing games.” He gestures between us. “This can’t happen.”
“I need to go.” I take a step away, needing distance, feeling stupid as hell.
“Yeah. Probably a good idea.” He steps back, finally giving me space. “Where are your keys?”
I pull them out of my pocket to show him and he snatches them from my hand.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he says.
“Give me my keys, Lucas.”
“Fuck no.”
“I’m fine—”
“You’ve had four glasses of whiskey. You’re not fine.” He heads for the stairs. “Come on.”
“I can call Sammy—”
“At nine? So he can drive over here and ask why you’re trashed at my house? No fuckin’ thanks.” He looks back at me. “You’re staying. Now, you can follow me, or I’m throwing you over my shoulder and carrying you.”
“Please. You wouldn—”
A second later, Lucas is lifting me just as he said, like I weigh nothing. “You can’t just do that!”
“Stop me,” he says, basically slinging me over his shoulder, holding my thighs. My face is still burning from the non-kiss, his smirk, from all of it.
Once we’re in his bedroom, he sets me down on the edge of the mattress, then clicks on the lamp. “I’ll be downstairs sleeping on the couch.”
He’s almost to the door when I blurt it out. “Stay.”
He stops, but he doesn’t turn around.
“Holiday—”
“Please. I don’t want to sleep in this big room and house by myself.”
He’s quiet for a long moment.
“Promise you’ll keep your ass on your side of the mattress,” he says. “If you cross it once, I’m out.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it.”
“I’ll behave!” I promise.
He moves to the opposite side of the bed. We lie down fully clothed with plenty of distance between us.
The silence stretches on, and I can hear him breathing.
Several minutes pass, and the world is spinning from the whiskey.
I feel the bed shift. His strong arm wraps around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. His face buries in my hair, and I feel him inhale deeply. It’s a long, slow breath like he’s trying to memorize the scent of me.
My hand finds his where it rests against my stomach, and our fingers tangle together. He pulls me closer, his leg hooking over mine. His thumb traces small circles on my stomach, and my fingers tighten around his. Neither of us speaks or says a single word.
Lucas Jolly’s arms wrap around me, holding me, and when I close my eyes to go to sleep, I let myself believe that maybe everything will be okay.