Chapter 16
BENJAMIN
I leave Hazel upstairs in the bathroom to give her a few minutes to freshen up before heading downstairs.
We should’ve finished what we started. She wants us. We want her.
“I’m not going to rush her just to get off,” I grumble under my breath.
Who said anything about rushing?
“We have all the time in the world. She’s spending the night—and tomorrow too, if you’ve forgotten.”
How are you planning on sleeping with her next door, only separated by one wall?
“She doesn’t even know which one is my room,” I huff as I step into the kitchen.
“Where’s your girlfriend?” Nathan asks, wiggling his eyebrows from where he leans against the counter.
“She’s not my—” We’d never gotten the chance to really talk about how we wanted to define our relationship. Did we even need to? I like kissing her, and that’s enough for me.
You’re going to have to tell her about the mating bond.
“Nathan, stop giving your brother a hard time and set the table,” Mom scolds as she pulls out the old mixer and starts lining up flour, sugar, and butter on the counter.
“Fine,” he quips, but not before turning toward me and puckering his lips in an exaggerated kissy-kissy face. My scowl only makes Nathan ham it up more as he disappears into the dining room.
“Why does he have to act like such an ass?” I mutter, glaring at his retreating back.
“You’ve given him enough grief over his dalliances. You shouldn’t be surprised he’s taking the opportunity to give some back.” Mom shakes her head, dusting her hands on her apron. Then her eyes flick slyly toward the stairs. “Besides, she’s a pretty little thing. Does she know?”
“Does she know what?” Dad asks as he strolls in, slinging an arm around Mom’s shoulders. He presses a kiss to her cheek before swiping a handful of chocolate chips from one of the bowls. Mom smacks his hand away.
“She… doesn’t,” I admit, my voice low.
“Benjamin!” Mom gasps. “You mean to tell me you haven’t even—”
“Didn’t tell me what?” Hazel’s voice floats in, and my heart skips.
She descends the stairs in a soft blue sweater that makes her eyes look like shards of winter sky. Her hair falls in a loose braid over her shoulder, a few wisps curling around her cheeks. She looks so perfectly at home in my parents’ kitchen it steals my breath.
“That we have a Christmas tradition,” Gran interrupts as she hobbles in, cane tapping against the floor. “We hide a pickle, and whoever finds it first gets an extra present.”
“A pickle?” Hazel laughs, brows lifting as she looks from me to Gran.
Gran gives her a conspiratorial wink. “Back in my day, it was a real pickle. Whoever found it got to pick the hiding spot the next year. Last year their father thought he had me beat, but I was faster.” She taps her nose and chuckles. “These boys are competitive, but I can still outwit them.”
Hazel’s gaze swings back to me, sparkling with amusement. I shrug, a half-smile tugging at my lips. “She’s telling the truth. Don’t underestimate her.”
“Do you have siblings, Hazel?” Mom asks, pulling three aprons from the hook and handing one to each of us.
“No, I’m an only child,” Hazel answers, looping the apron around her waist. “But I always wished I had a younger brother.”
“Well, you’re welcome to Nathan,” I say dryly as I tie mine on.
Hazel giggles, shaking her head. “He doesn’t seem that bad… for a younger brother.”
I grunt, but there’s a spark in her eyes that tells me she’s baiting me, enjoying this way too much.
She’d have Nathan in his place within a week. Goddess, I’d pay to see it.
“Oh, sugar cookies!” Hazel beams as she leans over Mom’s shoulder, scanning the recipe card. “Those are my favorite—especially with royal icing.”
“I knew I liked you,” Gran drawls, elbowing her gently.
“This is a modified old family recipe I’ve been perfecting,” Mom explains as she carefully measures flour into the mixing bowl. “The trick is to use softened butter—not melted—and to make sure you don’t overmix.”
She shoots me a look, one brow arched in warning.
I throw my hands up in mock surrender, laughter spilling out of me. “What? I couldn’t help myself. I was excited and ready to get to the best part—decorating.”
“You and your sweet tooth,” Gran mutters, taking a slow sip of hot cocoa, eyes twinkling over the rim of her mug.
The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I think, watching her smuggle another marshmallow from the dish beside her.
“I wonder who I got it from,” I tease, leaning one elbow on the counter.
Gran snorts, but before she can retort, Nathan comes swaggering back in from the dining room. He thumps me on the shoulder with a smirk. “It’s a good thing your girlfriend works at the candy shop.”
My gaze immediately flicks to Hazel. Her cheeks flush that perfect rosy pink, but instead of shying away, she meets my stare dead-on. There’s a spark in her eyes that makes my chest tighten.
“Be careful there,” she fires back at Nathan, voice sweet as sugar. “Santa might leave coal in your stocking if you’re not nice.”
Gran cackles. Mom hides a smile behind her hand. I can’t stop myself from grinning like a fool. Hazel, standing there with her braid over one shoulder and flour dusting her cheek, looks so at home in this kitchen, in my family’s chaos, that I almost forget to breathe.
Nathan opens his mouth, searching for a comeback, but nothing comes out. He flounders, sputtering, until Hazel just arches a brow at him.
“That’s what I thought,” I grumble, reaching for a marshmallow. “Don’t pick fights you can’t win, little brother.”
Hazel laughs, the sound like bells, and I swear my pulse stutters. She’s dangerous, this witch. Not because of her magic, but because she’s slipping past every wall I’ve ever built.
“Alright, kids,” Mom says firmly, clapping her hands to get us back on task. “Let’s focus on cookies before we run out of time. They still need to chill for an hour before baking.”
“It seems there are too many cooks in the kitchen. Nathan, why don’t you help me check on the roast in the smoker?” Dad offers, and the two of them stomp through the mudroom and outside.
I turn back to Hazel as she leans closer to read the recipe card over Mom’s shoulder.
Her sweater brushes my arm, soft and warm, and I catch the faintest whiff of her butterscotch scent.
My fingers tighten on the edge of the counter.
Careful, Benjamin. One more look like that and you’ll forget the dough, the cookies—the whole damn world.
“That should be it,” Mom says as she and Hazel turn the creamy white cookie dough onto the counter and divide it into four equal chunks. I help flatten the pieces into disks and wrap them in plastic so they can chill in the fridge.
Mom always did this part when we were kids; we just got the fun of cutting out the cookies and decorating them.
The last few years, Mom made the cookies while Nathan, Dad, and I spent the final days before Christmas hauling and selling trees in town.
I’d forgotten how much I’d missed this—getting so wrapped up in work, helping run the family tree farm.
“Benjamin, why don’t you make us all some fresh cocoa,” Gran suggests, lifting her empty cup.
“Oh, I can help!” Hazel says, finishing her sweep of stray flour from counter.
The next hour passes quickly as we clean up the dishes, then stand side by side at the stove, taking turns adding sugar and cocoa to the pan before breaking up chunks of chocolate over the simmering milk.
Every inch of me thrums to life when our hands brush.
When the mixture’s ready, I grab the pot and pour it into four matching mugs.
Hazel tops them off before we carry them over to the counter.
Gran retired to her room to rest before dinner, and Hazel and Mom are now working together—Hazel sharing her icing recipe. I lean against the counter, watching the two of them move in sync, as though this isn’t Hazel’s first time here. She fits. She belongs.
She’s mine.
She’s ours.
“Hey, don’t think I’m going to let you just stand there and reap the reward of eating these cookies later,” Mom scolds, though her tone is light and teasing. “Grab the rolling pin from the counter and flatten this out on the marble until it’s a little over a quarter inch thick.”
“But the two of you look like you’re having so much fun,” I tease, rolling the last bit of dough into place.
Together, the three of us—Hazel, Mom, and I—punch candy cane, snowflake, Christmas tree, and little sweater shapes out of the dough.
Hazel dusts flour from her hands and grins at me. “This is actually fun. I forgot how much I love baking around Christmas.”
Her smile tugs at something low in my chest. Dangerous. Too damn dangerous.
When the first batch comes out golden and perfect, Mom transfers them to the cooling rack. I snag one before it even has a chance to cool.
“Let me guess,” I say, brandishing it toward Hazel. “You want the Christmas tree.”
“You’re going to burn your hand!” she chides, eyes wide, braid slipping over her shoulder as she leans toward me.
“I’m fine. Look.” I set the cookie down and turn my hands over, palms up.
Without hesitation, she takes one in hers, fingers tracing lightly across my palm as if searching for damage. Her touch is soft, curious. My chest tightens.
“You’re not burnt at all.” Her brows draw together, lips pressing in concentration.
Mom clears her throat pointedly from the stove. Hazel lets go, flustered, her cheeks glowing brighter than the oven light.
“Must be from my tough hands,” I say smoothly, giving Hazel a wink. “All that work with the trees.”
Her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile, and for a second I imagine what they’d feel like under mine again.
“Now,” Mom interrupts, setting down bowls of icing and an array of sprinkles, candies, and piping bags. “Decorating duty.”
Hazel perks up immediately, grabbing a piping bag like it’s a weapon. “This is the best part.”