Chapter 14
LUCAS
I’ve been trying not to think about what Sammy told me, but with Holiday right in front of me, it’s hard. Every time I look at her, I think about how that piece of shit controlled and isolated her from everyone who ever loved her. There is a special place in hell for him.
The thought makes me want to put my fist through a wall, but I can’t tell her I know.
I think that would make everything worse, considering she’s still working through the end of that relationship.
I know Holiday and know she pulls away when things get too awkward.
That’s the last thing either of us needs right now when we’ve barely started to find our way back to something I’ve tried to forget.
I’ll watch and protect her. If anyone tries to get close enough to hurt her again, they’ll have to go through me first.
This morning, when that asshole started yelling at her in the bakery, I dropped the tree I was carrying and stormed through that door in seconds. I could hear him cursing in front of kids and families.
Not sure I’ll ever forget the look on his face when I dragged him outside and explained who the fuck I was. I banned him from the property. The look on Holiday’s face made everything worth it.
Now she’s standing in my kitchen with her hands tucked into her hoodie pocket, studying the ingredients like she’s doing calculations in her head.
Her hair is up in that messy bun I like, but it’s intentional, not a chaotic disaster.
This is exactly how I like to see her, relaxed and being herself.
Not trying to impress. She showered before coming over, and the smell of her soap makes me want to lean in closer every time she moves past me.
“Okay,” she finally says. “So, we tried other recipes before, and they were good, but I think we can do better.”
“You always think you can do better.”
“I usually can,” she says and pauses. “But not with everything.”
“You’re damn right about that,” I say, reading between the lines.
It does something to my chest that I’m not ready to feel. I don’t say anything else, because it’s best if I don’t. Right now, Holiday needs a friend, someone to keep her ass honest and not let her forget who the hell she is.
She continues. “Hmm. What if we tried something like a shortbread with a chocolate fudge and pecan top? A decadent cookie bar.”
I lean against the counter. “Sounds complicated.”
“It’s not. It’ll just take multiple steps that will need to be timed perfectly. It’s also layered, which is impressive, and possible in three hours.” She moves to the sink to wash her hands. “A wise person once told me to trust the process.”
I used to tell her that all the time.
She pauses and looks over her shoulder at me. Her baby blues catch the light from the overhead, and they’re shining a little brighter than they were when she arrived.
“The good ole days,” I say, reminiscing. “When my biggest concern was getting ungrounded so I could hang out with you at the fair.”
“I’d trade anything to go back.” Something vulnerable flashes in her expression and it makes me want to move to her. It takes all my effort to stay right where I am.
If I had a time machine, I’d do things differently, that’s for damn sure.
“Well.” Holiday dries her hands on a dish towel and quickly wipes down the counter. I grab two mixing bowls and measuring cups.
“Let’s start with the shortbread dough,” Holiday says, preheating the oven.
She calls out directions so I can follow along. I’m shocked when she says it’s only butter, sugar, and flour with salt.
“Gradually add the flour. Don’t dump it all in at once,” she instructs. “We’re not going to overwork the dough. Got it?”
“Understood,” I say, knowing how good a teacher she is. I almost feel sorry for her former employees, because I know how hard it is to lose her. When it looks crumbly like hers, I stop mixing.
Holiday takes the dough out of her bowl and plops it on the counter. We stand side by side, combining our mixtures into one big ball. I can’t help but watch her hands work it.
“Rolling pin?” she asks.
I bend down on one knee and reach to the back of the cabinet directly below me. I look up at her, and she swallows hard. The air crackles with the knowledge that I would’ve married her. I let the moment grow uncomfortable for her because she needs to sit in that feeling.
I slowly stand and hand it to her.
“We’re going to flatten it out,” she says. “I need two baking pans. The largest ones you have.”
The soft sound of our breaths mixing as we make magic in the kitchen is something I haven’t heard in a long time.
It reminds me of being seventeen and having sleepovers at Mawmaw’s so we could bake cookies at midnight.
Holiday would invent recipes. Sometimes they’d turn out great, other times they wouldn’t.
It was trial-and-error baking, something we bonded over.
“So,” I say as she places the sweet dough in the bottom of two pans. “Three thousand cookies in three hours today.”
She groans as she grabs a fork, stabbing the top of the shortbread. “Please don’t remind me.”
“That’s unheard of, Holiday. You’re going to burn out trying to keep up with that.”
“What else do I have to do this season?” She sighs. “It’s the only thing that keeps my mind busy, and right now, I need that distraction.”
“Okay, but it’s not healthy to work yourself to death,” I offer.
She tilts her head at me. “You’re one to talk. You’re at the farm more than me.”
I suck in a breath, realizing she noticed.
“Some of us still have to prove ourselves around here. I’m not a Jolly who’s automatically loved because of the namesake,” she says. “You have it easy, Lucas.”
I can’t deny that my life is easier than most. It doesn’t mean I work less hard, but there are privileges when your dad is Santa and your family owns the only tree farm in a hundred-mile radius.
“I just want as many people as possible to eat my cookies this season. I don’t care what it takes.”
“Let me help you,” I offer, understanding this is personal for her.
“You want to help me?” she asks. “Come on, Lucas. Like you have time for that.”
When the oven is at temperature, Holiday places the pans inside, then sets a timer for twenty minutes.
I lean against the counter, crossing my arms over my chest. Her gaze trails over my arms.
“It would be good practice.”
“Lucas, you don’t have to—”
“I want to.” The sweet smell of cookies baking fills the kitchen. “Might as well practice as much as possible.”
“You’re already working sixteen-hour shifts, how will that work?” she asks with brows lifted.
“I stick around until you leave, Peaches,” I admit. “My shift ends at three every day. I worked hard for my cushy schedule.”
She gives me a look. “Why would you do that?”
“I’m not leaving you on the farm alone,” I say.
A smile touches her lips. “But you hate me.”
I playfully roll my eyes. “Yep. Imagine what it would be like if it were love.”
This makes her chuckle. “Helping me prep isn’t the same as practicing for the contest.”
“We need to relearn how to work together in the kitchen again.” I look at her directly. “Plus, I’m lonely as fuck. My brothers moved on with their lives. Sammy’s been busy as hell with work. What else do I have going on? This is pretty much it.”
The admission hangs between us. I haven’t shared that with anyone because who wants to hear about me coming home to an empty house I built for a future that never happened. It feels safe to be honest with her.
“I’ve been lonely, too,” she tells me. “It’s really weird being back. I feel like I’m stuck between two different versions of myself.”
“Yeah, that girl who went to Paris, I don’t like her very much.”
She sarcastically laughs. “Me either. I don’t know who that person was.”
I hold her gaze, knowing the person I fell in love with is still in there somewhere, fighting to be released from that prison.
While the cookies finish baking, I add more wood to the fire. Eventually, the oven dings and Holiday removes the pans, setting them onto cork rounds on the counter. “While it cools, we’ll make the fudge. We’ll pour it on top and let it chill in the fridge until the timer runs out, then serve it.”
My mouth falls open. “You’re so talented.”
“Oh, stop,” she says, tucking her lips into her mouth. “You give me too much credit.”
I stand to the side, watching Holiday make the fudge. A strand of hair has escaped her bun and curls against her neck. I want to reach out and tuck the loose strands behind her ear. But then again, I’ve wanted a lot of things when it comes to Holiday.
She works with absolute confidence as she pours pecans into the mixture, then scoops it on top of the shortbread. She does a swirl design on the top that makes it look fancy.
Seconds later, she’s reorganizing my fridge so she can place it inside to cool the fudge topping. Once she shuts the doors, she turns to me. “Now we wait an hour.”
“Impressive,” I tell her.
“Can we sit by the fire?” she asks, swiping her wineglass from the counter and filling it.
“Of course.” I fill my glass, too, then place my hand on her lower back before immediately pulling away. Some habits die hard.
I’ve tried to forget what it felt like to have her hips pressed against mine. We spent so many summer nights in the bed of my truck, sneaking around like no one knew. I’ll never forget how the late afternoon sun made her skin glow. It feels like a dream now.
Focus, Jolly.
We move into the living room and settle on opposite ends of the couch. The fire crackles and pops. She tucks her feet under her and wraps both hands around her wineglass.
“Can I ask you something?” she says after a moment.
“You just did.”
She huffs. “Why did you throw out my peppermint fudge brownie?”
I nearly choke on the wine I was drinking. “Ah. I was almost convinced you didn’t see that.”
“If it tastes bad, I kinda need to know becau—”
“It was perfect. I was fucking with you.” I try to hold back a smile but fail.
“Asshole!”
I shrug. “I do what I can to live rent-free in that pretty little head of yours.”
“And you continue to prove my point.” Holiday smiles, like she’s committing this to memory.
I know I am.
Her shoulders relax, and she leans against the cushion. Neither of us says anything else; the truth is, I don’t know where to start. So instead, I watch the firelight play across her face, wondering what she’s thinking.
Eventually, she speaks. She always speaks first when the silence lingers too long between us. “This is what we used to wish for. Baking because we can. Being able to hang out with no curfew.”
“Yeah,” I say, sipping my wine.
“Do you think I’m romanticizing it?” She looks at me. “Everything I wanted in life felt like it was possible.”
The way she’s looking at me right now makes it hard to breathe. Like maybe she’s remembering the same things I am. The same nights. The same promises.
“It still is,” I encourage her.
“Everything?” She studies my face, and by her expression, I know what she’s asking. Us. Do we have a chance?
The timer on the oven goes off. Saved by the bell.
She moves to the kitchen, and I follow behind her. It’s hard for me to predict our future when I’ve been so damn wrong before.
Holiday grabs a knife and carefully cuts the cookie bar into fat squares. She places a slice on a plate and scoots it toward me.
“Shall we?” she asks.
“Together,” I tell her, slicing it in half.
Crumbs fall to the ground as we pick each of our halves up.
“On the count of three,” she says.
We tap the pastry like we’re toasting with wineglasses, then take a bite.
“It’s missing something. It needs sea salt on top,” I tell her. “To counteract the richness.”
Her eyes widen. “Yes, I think you’re right. Do you have some?”
“Yeah.” After we sprinkle the salt on top of another piece and halve it, we pop it into our mouths.
She moans. This is fucking torture.
“It needed that,” I say. “Perfect cookie bar.”
Holiday reaches for the salt and somehow knocks the box over. It tips to the side and crashes to the floor, spilling everywhere.
“Shit,” she says.
I chuckle, and we kneel at the same time to pick it up. Leaning forward, I pinch some salt and throw it over her shoulder. She does the same for me.
“No bad luck for either of us,” I say. It’s one of Mawmaw’s rules. Salt gets spilled, salt over the shoulder.
We stand, and we’re close enough that I can see her pulse jumping in her throat. Close enough to smell her shampoo. Close enough that if I just leaned forward—
“Lucas,” she whispers.
“Yeah?”
She doesn’t finish what she was going to say, but neither of us moves.
Another second passes. Two. Three. An eternity could slip away right now and I’d welcome it.
Her phone buzzes, pulling her attention away, and the moment is lost.
“It was just Sammy checking in.”
I sprinkle salt on the tray of bars and take another square. It’s so fucking good, it makes me moan.
Holiday turns red.
Every instinct is screaming at me to close this distance and finally taste her lips again after fifteen years. But I can’t.
“I should sweep up this mess.” It gives me an opportunity to break away from her.
“Sorry about that,” she tells me. “Also, the salt is a perfect touch.”
“We should make some of these for Mawmaw to try on Sunday.”
“Yeah.” Holiday chuckles. “These won’t last until then.”
“No chance. I think it’s the one. This recipe has everything. Tastes like the holidays.”
She cuts herself another slice. “Yeah, they’re damn good.”
“I think I could eat this whole pan myself.”
“Feel free,” she says, adding dishes to the sink. She yawns and I notice how tired she looks.
“I’ve got it. Seriously. You should go home and get some rest. You’ll need it.”
She yawns again. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I confirm, moving her toward the door.
“Thanks.” She reaches for the knob. “For tonight. For everything.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I know. I want to,” she tells me.
I open the door and cool air rushes in with a whisper.
“Good night.”
“Night, Peaches.”
She shakes her head as she takes the steps off the porch. I lean against the door as she turns and looks back at me. I pop my brows at her, and she smiles while climbing into her car.
I don’t go inside until her taillights fade away.
What the hell am I doing?
I thought I was over her, that I could do this, but tonight proved I’m a liar.
I’m not over Holiday Patterson. I never was. And she looked at me like maybe she feels it, too.
Yeah, I’m completely fucked.