Chapter 22
THAT'S A WRAP
Jack
The impact knocks the breath out of me, not from her weight but from the fact that Audrey Nouel just threw herself at me in the middle of a snowbank like we’re reenacting a holiday rom-com stunt gone wrong.
Her lips are on mine—hot, frantic, desperate—and I don’t care that I’m half-buried in a ditch with a truck older than disco. I kiss her back, one hand cupping her frozen cheek, the other anchoring around her waist like she might slip away if I don’t hold tight.
When we finally break for air, she’s panting, eyes wild, hair stuck to her damp cheeks. “You idiot,” she breathes, voice muffled against my collar. “You absolute, flannel-wearing idiot.”
I huff out a laugh, forehead against hers. “That’s fair. But for the record, I’m only in flannel because I thought you wanted a lumberjack.”
Her brows knit. “A lumberjack?”
I nod, already bracing for impact. “Yeah, I figured you wanted plaid and sawdust. Big guy with an axe.”
She blinks at me, then shakes her head, snowflakes scattering from her hair. “Jack, I don’t need a lumberjack.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she silences me with a hard, fast kiss that robs every smart-ass rebuttal from my throat. When she pulls back, breath warm against my skin, she adds, “And no, not a Christmas tree farmer either.”
Her hands fist tighter in my shirt, her eyes burning into mine.
“I need someone by my side. Someone who makes me slow down and actually notice the world instead of racing through it. Someone caring enough to worry over a stray dog’s limp and look after a neighbor’s lawn gnome rights.
Someone who organizes a surprise celebration of sexual-innuendo pastries because the owner of the store is too blind to see what’s right in front of her. ”
My chest tightens. The air steams between us. I should kiss her—agree with her—but the only thing that comes out is, “But what about your dream of small-town life—”
“That was made when I was an idiot. Before I met you.” She huddles closer as if afraid I might slip away.
Which is ridiculous. I’m not going anywhere. Not anymore.
Her fists tighten around my flannel. “You’re all that matters.”
I’ve always been a man of considerable vocabulary. It’s imperative to persuasiveness, which is key in my line of work. And yet on top of a mountain, on the side of a road, a foot from a ditch, all I can think to say is, “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she parrots, my stupidity apparently making her smile. “And forget small-town life if you don’t want it. Eli told me about the house listings.” Still smiling, she shakes her head. “Thank you, Jack, but you don’t need to move or buy a house. I know your work is in LA.”
The lawyer in me—the part that always hunts for the rebuttal—snaps to attention. “But yours is in Hideaway.” My counter comes out as more plea than argument.
“Yes, but thanks to you”—she flutters her lashes, a stray flake catching like a rhinestone—“I can open a Making Whoopie anywhere in the country.”
My brain flashes to the trademark application I drew up; the idea fits in my head like a puzzle piece turned the right way.
Her arms wrap around me, warm and fierce. “Even the diet-driven citizens of LA need a whoopie pie now and then.”
“You’d do that?” My voice reads less like a lawyer and more like a kid who’s just been offered his favorite thing.
She regards me like I’ve declared both the most outrageous idea and the most obvious truth. “Jack,” she says—no drama, only steadiness—“I just closed the bakery in the middle of a holiday sales rush for you.”
My jaw drops. I glance at my watch over her shoulder; she’s right—she should be cash-register deep in Whoopie celebrations. “Wow. You really do love me.”
She pauses, as if the sound of it surprises her, then the shock melts into a smile. “I do, Jack. I do love you.”
“I love you, too.” The words come out raw and certain.
“I know.” She kisses me again—a real, deep kiss.
Not that the ones before weren’t real, but this one is different: not an experiment, not a dare.
This kiss folds in everything—apology and forgiveness, danger and promise, half-forgotten jokes and serious plans.
It lands like a promise, a vow, a private treaty: whatever comes next, we choose each other.
I hold her until the world resumes—engine ticking, snow settling, the truck cooling—until the scent of wet wool and buttercream fills my senses, and for the first time in weeks, maybe months, I am exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Audrey
By the time Jack and I roll back into town in my mom’s SUV, my toes are finally thawing courtesy of Jack’s dress socks unearthed from his suitcase. I wedge my bundled feet into my dried-off Crocs—not exactly what Armani had in mind, but it works for me.
The rest of his luggage came in handy, too.
Because when we finally stopped kissing long enough to realize certain vital parts of our anatomy were courting frostbite—my fingers and toes, Jack’s cold bits more centrally located—the look he gave me as he peeled off my wet clothes before wrapping me like a present in his dry ones was enough to save me from hypothermia.
We left his new-old truck by the side of the road, one of his white Calvin Klein undershirts flapping in the driver’s side window like a surrender flag. Probably not the official way to mark an abandoned vehicle but close enough.
As the SUV noses into Main Street, my heart, already fit to burst, stutters at the sight: Making Whoopie is glowing like a lantern, spilling warm light onto the snow-packed sidewalk. People are coming and going, their arms full of boxes.
I sit forward. “It’s still open?”
Jack glances at me, brow arched. “Didn’t you say you gave the keys to Eileen?”
“I did.” I squint down the road, spotting the line of bundled coats outside my door. “Told her to close it.”
But she didn’t.
We park around back, the rear light above my back door cutting a weak circle into the night, steam curling from the vents like the place itself is breathing. Jack and I, fingers laced, slip inside.
The noise hits first—the hum of chatter, bursts of laughter, the steady ding of the register. Then the smell: chocolate, peppermint, sugar, and coffee.
From the shadow of the kitchen doorway, I take it all in.
Portia is boxing orders, ribbon between her teeth as she ties bows with the speed of someone who knows how to pull taffy.
Amanda has commandeered a piping bag, cream swirling on cakes like she was born for it rather than the stage.
Even Mia is juggling her camera and trays, snapping candids between shoving more whoopies into the display case.
And at the cash register—my mom.
The line stretches out the door, coats and scarves trailing behind. Steam curls from cups of coffee Eileen is doling out with the gravitas of a ma?tre d’. “Next! Keep it moving, darlings, these whoopies won’t eat themselves.”
Jack leans close, his breath warm at my ear. “Looks like they’ve got it handled.”
I can’t speak. My throat’s too tight, heart too full.
“Thank you for shopping at Making Whoopie,” Mom says brightly, handing a customer their change—then casually tossing a bottle of lube into their bag. “Where every craving deserves a happy ending.”
The customer snorts. Someone in line laughs so hard they nearly drop their box, and the whole place ripples with it.
It might be my bakery. But tonight, it’s also Hideaway’s.
Jack shifts beside me, his body tense like he’s about to step forward, announce us, let the whole town see we’re here and we’re together.
But I catch his sleeve, fingers curling tightly into the flannel. A quick shake of my head.
His brows lift in question, but I tip my chin toward the narrow door at the back, the one that leads to my apartment. His gaze softens, understanding reflecting in the warm light filling the shop.
We move together, silent as guilty teenagers, slipping over the threshold and shutting the door behind us with a quiet click that muffles the laughter and clatter on the other side.
Our footsteps creak, hushed by the thick hum of adrenaline in my ears. Halfway up, his hand slides against mine, rough and steady, and I squeeze back, eager for harder touches.
By the time we reach my apartment, my breath is already ragged. We tumble inside, the door nudging shut on a room washed in soft lamplight and the faint scent of pine from the Christmas tree.
Our Christmas tree.
There are no words left to argue, no doubts left to wrestle. Just his mouth finding mine, the weight of his body pressing me back against the door, the heat of him chasing away every chill the day tried to carve into me.
Jack bends, strong arms sliding beneath me. I gasp as he lifts me clean off the floor, my legs wrapping around his waist by instinct.
My world sways as he carries me down the narrow hall, each step creaking beneath his boots.
His lips never leave mine, kissing me through the stumble and sway until we reach my bedroom.
The lamp on the nightstand throws a soft, golden glow, the quilt on my bed rumpled from this morning’s hasty exit.
He lays me down like I’m breakable, but his eyes—dark, hungry, reverent—tell me otherwise. I tug him over me, pulling his weight, his heat, wanting every inch of him pressed to every inch of me.
Clothes scatter in our wake—his flannel sliding from my shoulders, his jeans pushed down with impatient hands, my borrowed socks flung aside one by one. His body covers mine, hot skin to hot skin, and when he finally presses inside, slow and deep, I arch into him with a cry.
He moves carefully at first, like he’s savoring, memorizing, until my nails drag down his back and his restraint breaks. The rhythm builds, steady and consuming, until the room is full of the sounds of us—breathless gasps, low groans, the squeak of the mattress beneath our bodies.
I cling to him, every thrust driving away the cold, every kiss sealing something permanent between us. When I come apart beneath him, it feels like falling and being caught all at once. He follows, shuddering, whispering my name against my skin like a prayer.
Afterward, he collapses beside me, pulling me against his chest, his heartbeat pounding against my ear, his arm heavy and sure around me.
I burrow closer, wrapped in a quiet, steady happiness I never knew existed. Not something to chase. Not something to win. Just a place to rest. With Jack.
He presses a kiss behind my ear, his voice dropping to a rumble. “I want you to know one thing, Audrey.”
I smile against his chest. “That you love me?”
“Well, yeah.” Lips brush my hair. “But also, freezing my balls off for whoopie?” He leans back, eyes locking on mine, his grin wicked and tender all at once. “Smartest move I ever made.”