Chapter Five
Candi
Activity pulsed through the barn those five days before Christmas Eve.
Volunteers cycled through in shifts I'd scheduled down to the hour—morning crew for sorting, afternoon for wrapping and labeling, evening for quality checks. The system I'd set up ran smoothly.
Bart handled all the purchasing and pickup, returning each afternoon with his truck bed loaded with new items. Warm clothes and shoes in every size, groceries stacked in boxes, children’s books and toys. He'd take over data tracking while I coordinated volunteers, both of us working in easy rhythm.
"You're terrifyingly efficient," he said one afternoon, watching me direct three volunteers while simultaneously updating our social media with photos of wrapped packages.
"I told you I was good at this." I didn't look up from my phone, adding hashtags to the post. "You just didn't believe me."
"I believe you now."
The walls had come down completely between us since that night in his bedroom. We orbited each other with easy familiarity—his hand on my lower back as he passed, my fingers trailing across his shoulders when I needed his attention.
I'd started staying over more nights than not. My toothbrush appeared in his bathroom without discussion. Mid-week, I'd opened a drawer looking for a shirt I'd left behind and discovered he'd cleared the entire thing—my spare clothes folded neatly inside, space made like I belonged there.
"When did you do this?" I'd asked, holding up one of my sweaters.
He'd shrugged from the bathroom doorway, towel around his waist, water still beading on his chest. "Tuesday. You kept digging through your overnight bag. Seemed inefficient."
My throat closed. The gesture was so simple, but it meant everything.
"Thank you."
"It's just a drawer."
But we both knew it wasn't.
The Airbnb sat mostly empty now, my extra equipment and suitcase the only occupants. I was keeping it through the end of the month as planned, but the truth was I was more at home in Bart's house than I’d ever been at the cottage.
Those evenings fell into a pattern—me teaching him to cook while he "helped" by tasting everything and getting in my way, then curling up on his couch for whatever holiday movie I picked.
He pretended to hate the cheesy Hallmark ones but still let me choose, and I caught him smiling at the predictable happy endings more than once.
We fell into bed together each night, learning each other's bodies with increasing confidence. The age gap showed in small ways—his experience and patience, my enthusiastic energy—but the chemistry was undeniable, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.
THE EVENING OF THE twentieth, I'd been staring at wrapped packages for so long the ribbon patterns blurred together.
"We should do something nice for the volunteers," I announced, stretching my arms over my head. "They've been amazing."
Bart looked up from the inventory checklist. "What did you have in mind?"
"Cookies. Christmas cookies. We could package them in tins, give them out as thank-you gifts."
"I don't bake."
"I know. That's why I'm teaching you." I was already pulling out my phone to find my mom's recipe. "Come on. It'll be fun."
He closed his laptop with obvious resignation. "When this ends in disaster, I'm blaming you."
"When this ends in delicious cookies, you're welcome."
His kitchen had never seen this level of activity. I pulled out mixing bowls and measuring cups while he watched with clear skepticism.
"First rule of baking," I said, tying my hair back. "Follow the recipe exactly."
"I can do that."
"Can you though?"
Twenty minutes into the project, I realized I'd been overly optimistic.
"Wait—that's way too much," I said, catching his hand before he dumped what looked like half the container into the bowl.
"The recipe says add salt."
"A teaspoon. Not a tablespoon. And definitely not—" I peered at the container he was holding. "Oh my god, that's sugar."
"What?"
"You're salting the dough with sugar." I couldn't help laughing. "They're in completely different containers!"
"They're both white and granular!"
"One says SALT and one says SUGAR." I pointed at the labels. "See? Words. Very helpful."
He scowled, but his mouth twitched. "New rule. You handle all the ingredients."
"New rule accepted. You're on stirring duty only."
He could handle stirring. What he couldn't handle was not getting flour everywhere. Or resisting tasting the raw dough. Or keeping his hands to himself when I bent over to check the oven temperature.
"Focus," I said, swatting his hand away from my ass. "First batch is almost ready."
"I'm very focused." His voice was low, heated. "Just not on cookies."
The timer dinged. I pulled out the tray and surveyed the results—golden brown, crispy edges, perfect. "See? Not a disaster."
"Those look actually good."
"Told you." I set them on the cooling rack, already mentally planning the icing. "We'll do two more batches, then decorate."
The second batch went into the oven, and I turned to find Bart watching me with an expression that made heat pool low in my belly.
"What?"
"You have flour in your hair." He reached out, fingers gentle as he brushed it away. "And on your cheek. And—"
"If you say I look adorable, I'm going to throw dough at you."
"I was going to say you look sexy." He pulled me closer. "Covered in flour, teaching me in my kitchen. Very sexy."
"The cookies—"
"Can wait five minutes." His mouth found mine, tasting like vanilla and butter and want.
Except five minutes turned into ten, then fifteen. By the time the timer went off again, our breathing was ragged and the kitchen smelled distinctly of smoke.
"The cookies!" I shoved him away, grabbing for the oven mitt.
Too late. The second batch was burnt black, inedible.
"That's your fault," I said, waving away smoke while he opened windows.
"My fault? You kissed me back."
"You started it!" But I was laughing, surveying the charred disasters. "Okay. New rule. No kissing until the cookies are done."
"Terrible rule."
"Necessary rule if you want these volunteers to have anything edible."
We produced two more decent batches—mostly through my careful timer management and refusing to let him distract me. The kitchen looked like a flour bomb had detonated, white powder coating every surface, but we had cookies.
"Now we ice them," I announced, pulling out the container of vanilla frosting.
"Ice them?"
"Decorate them. Make them pretty." I unscrewed the lid, dipping my finger in to taste. "Mmm. Perfect."
Bart's eyes darkened as he watched my finger slide from my mouth. "That's not fair."
"What's not fair?"
"You. Doing that." He stepped closer. "Looking like that."
"I'm covered in flour and sugar."
"Exactly." He dipped his own finger in the frosting, then smeared it across my collarbone. "Now we're even."
Heat flashed through me. "That's how you want to play?"
"I'm not playing." But his mouth was already at my collarbone, tongue tracing the line of frosting, and I stopped caring about frosting cookies.
What followed was the least productive baking session in history. More gooey icing ended up on us than the cookies—dabbed on skin, licked off slowly, vanilla sweetness transferred between mouths as we kissed and laughed and turned cookie decorating into foreplay.
"We're supposed to be making thank-you gifts," I managed between kisses, his mouth hot against my neck.
"We are." He lifted me onto the counter, settling between my legs. "Eventually."
"Bart—"
"Do you want me to stop?" His fingers found the hem of my shirt, pushing it up slowly.
"No. Definitely no." I pulled him closer. "But if these treats don't get decorated, I'm blaming you."
"Noted." His hands slid up my thighs, hooking into my leggings and pulling them down along with my underwear in one smooth motion.
The cold granite against my bare skin made me gasp, but then his mouth was on mine, hot and demanding, and I forgot about everything except the way his hands felt on my body.
"You have icing—" he murmured against my lips, his fingers trailing down my stomach, "—everywhere."
"Your fault."
"Let me clean it up." He kissed down my neck, between the twin swells of my breasts. Lower. His breath ghosted over my hip where a smear of sticky frosting had somehow ended up.
His tongue traced it slowly, deliberately, making me squirm. Then he moved lower still, settling between my thighs, and I realized with a jolt exactly where else the sugary mess had landed.
"Bart—oh god—"
His tongue found my clit, licking away every trace before working the sensitive bundle of nerves with devastating skill. My hands flew to his hair, gripping tight as pleasure built hot and fast.
"That's it," he murmured against me. "Let me taste you."
His mouth worked me expertly, alternating between broad strokes of his tongue and focused attention on my clit that had me gasping his name. When he added two fingers inside me, curling to hit that perfect spot, I shattered with a cry that echoed through the kitchen.
Before I could catch my breath, he was pulling me off the counter, spinning me around to face it.
"Hands on the counter," he said, his voice rough with need. "Bend over for me."
I obeyed, gripping the edge, my legs trembling. Behind me, I heard his belt buckle, the rasp of his zipper. Then he was there, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance.
"You're so wet for me," he groaned, sliding in slowly. "So perfect."
The angle was deeper than anything we'd done before, and I moaned as he filled me completely.
"Touch yourself," he commanded, one hand gripping my hip while the other guided my fingers down between my legs. "Circle your clit. Show me how you like it."
My fingers found the swollen nub, still sensitive from his mouth, and I began moving in tight circles while he thrust into me from behind. The dual sensation—his cock hitting deep inside while my own fingers worked my clit—had me climbing toward release again embarrassingly fast.