14. Colette
COLETTE
I shuffle through Grannie's front door with my plate of gingerdoodles—a hybrid between gingersnaps and snickerdoodles that took me three tries to perfect this afternoon. Baking always helps me process my emotions, and boy, did I have some processing to do.
The house smells like butter, vanilla, and cinnamon - a combination that would normally lift my spirits, but today just reminds me of how Hendrix manipulated me.
"Colette, dear! Come in, come in!" Grannie Bell waves me over to her judging table, already laden with plates of cookies. "I was worried you wouldn't make it."
"I wouldn't miss the annual cookie bake-off." I force a smile, knowing full well I wouldn’t have come this year if Hendrix were still in town.
The kitchen buzzes with activity as neighbors crowd around, their own cookie offerings filling the air with cinnamon, nutmeg, and competitive tension. Mrs. Fraser's famous shortbread sits next to Mrs. Patel’s chocolate crackles, both looking picture-perfect.
Mrs. Fraser eyes my cookies. "Gingerdoodle? How... unique."
I bite back a retort. The last thing I need is to get on the bad side of the Peppertree Lane Christmas committee. Besides, my mind is too preoccupied with wondering if Hendrix managed to get home okay. Not that I care. He deserved it after that stunt he pulled.
"These are stunning, dear." Grannie lifts one of my cookies, examining the intricate royal icing design. "Such delicate work."
"Thank you." I manage a smile, though inside I'm still seething about last night's disaster. The nerve of that man, letting me believe?—
"Speaking of delicate matters..." Grannie's eyes twinkle as she leans in close. "Heinrich never came home last night. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"
My stomach drops thinking about?—
Wait a minute.
“Did you just call him… Heinrich?”
Grannie rolls her eyes. “That boy! He doesn’t care for the name that German father of his gave him, well fine. But what kind of name is Hendrix?”
Goldie tuts from the other side of the room. “Cha! Millenials!”
I’m already doing the math in my head. “I don’t think we’re millennials, actually.”
“Well?” Grannie waggles her brows. “Where did our Heinrich spend the night? Hmmm?”
"I, uh... probably at his condo?” I say, wondering how he got home.
The guilt I've been suppressing since abandoning him at the Blizzard Dome resurfaces with a vengeance, but then I remember his smug face when Liam revealed he never texted me.
During the game, I actually enjoyed myself. Emily and Maggie were wonderful company, and the box seats were incredible. For a minute, I’d thought about abandoning my plan entirely.
I'd at least planned to at least drop him at his condo before heading to Emily's.
That was the decent thing to do. But when Liam looked at me like I was a stranger, and I realized Hendrix had orchestrated the whole thing, I just left him there.
The memory of his face when I turned and walked away still burns.
For a second, I almost turned around. Almost.
Then I remembered how he let me believe Liam had reached out to me. How he watched me make a fool of myself in front of his brother. The memory still burns, hot enough to chase away any remaining guilt.
Well, most of it anyway.
"Mhmm." Grannie winks suggestively. "His condo, you say?"
"Yes, his condo. Where he lives. Alone." I straighten my cardigan, willing my face to cool down. "Oh wow! Who brought the rum balls? I love those."
"Well,” Grannie says, “I hope he at least had a good breakfast. Though some things are sweeter than breakfast, wouldn't you agree, dear?"
“I wouldn’t know anything about breakfast,” I say quickly. "I didn't eat until I got home."
Oh dear Lord, I'm making it worse. By the morning, the whole town will think I spent the night with Hendrix Ellis.
The truth is, my stomach was too knotted up to stop for breakfast.
I'd barely slept at Emily and Owen's, tossing and turning in their luxurious guest room. Their house was gorgeous—all modern angles and floor-to-ceiling windows—but I couldn't enjoy it. By 5 AM, I'd scribbled a thank-you note and snuck out.
Grannie winks, patting my arm. "Of course you didn't, dear."
I trip over words trying to clear things up, but she's already moved on, playing the perfect hostess.
"These cookies won't judge themselves!" she announces to the room, effectively ending our conversation. "Let the tasting begin!"
She positions herself next to her daughter, Goldie—the two ladies holding court, like judges on the Baking Channel.
I watch them sample each entry with theatrical consideration, willing myself to count my blessings now that things are back to normal.
To think I almost didn't come to Grannie's cookie contest this year.
Because of Hendrix. But he's gone now. Back in Toronto where he belongs. That's what I wanted, right?
So why does this victory feel so hollow?
The judging continues as I help myself to another glass of wine and some prosciutto-wrapped melon. Mrs. Fraser keeps shooting me concerned looks as I pile more cheese onto my plate. Whatever. I'm not driving. It's fine.
"And the winner is..." Grannie pauses for dramatic effect, "Jessica's Chocolate Orange Pinwheels!"
My neighbor two doors down squeals, bouncing her baby on her hip as she accepts her prize—a golden rolling pin spray-painted by Grannie herself. Jessica's cookies did look amazing, with perfect swirls of dark chocolate and orange-tinted dough.
"The orange zest really made them pop," Goldie declares, already reaching for another one.
I'm fine with losing. Really. My gingerdoodles were a desperate attempt at creativity born from emotional turmoil. Besides, who wants to win a spray-painted rolling pin anyway? My head's too fuzzy from the mulled wine to care about winning or losing right now.
"And now," Grannie announces, "time for carols!"
Oh no. Not carols. Not when I'm three glasses deep and still thinking about Hendrix's stupid face.
I'm reaching for more brie when the front door opens, letting in a blast of cold air, and… there he is. Hendrix. Standing in the doorway, looking unfairly handsome with snowflakes in his hair. I freeze, cheese knife hovering mid-air.
Great. I summoned him with my thoughts. No, no, no. I'm hallucinating. That’s it. The wine must be stronger than I thought. Maybe if I close my eyes, he'll disappear.
I open them. Nope. Still there.
Imaginary Hendrix shrugs off a very real-looking coat and stamps snow from his boots. He looks right at me and raises an eyebrow.
"We need to talk."
I nearly choke on my brie as Hendrix weaves through the crowd, brushing past Mrs. Fraser's attempts to hand him a cookie. His jaw is set in that stubborn way.
I grip my plate of cheese tighter as Hendrix weaves through the crowd—his jaw set. Several women try to intercept him—Mrs. Fraser with her shortbread, Mrs. Patel squeezing his bicep, Jessica bouncing her baby while waving her golden rolling pin—but he dodges them all.
"Hey Gran, sorry I'm late." He nods at his grandmother. She waves cheerfully at Hendrix from across the room, but she's too caught up directing the carol singers.
When Hendrix reaches me, his eyes are on fire.
"Not now," I hiss, backing away until I bump into the snack table. A plate of shortbread cookies rattles.
"Yes, now." He reaches for my elbow, but I dodge behind a group of caroling neighbors.
"Over there." Hendrix points to Grannie's back hallway, the one leading to her craft room.
"I'm busy." I stuff a piece of brie in my mouth, buying time. "Cookie contest."
"The contest is over." He steps closer, voice low. "And we both know you didn't win."
"Excuse you?—"
"Private conversation. Now." His jaw tightens. "Unless you'd rather discuss what happened last night in front of everyone?"
Heat creeps up my neck. Mrs. Fraser's already leaning in our direction, pretending to study the cheese plate while clearly eavesdropping. Mrs. Patel is looking our way with keen interest, probably planning how to work this into tomorrow's gossip rotation.
"Fine." I set down my wine glass. "But make it quick. I have caroling to avoid."
I follow him down the hallway, past Grannie's wall of family photos. Young Hendrix grins from several frames, always mid-laugh or mid-prank. The same insufferable smile he wore at the game before everything went sideways.
He ushers me into the craft room, blocking my escape route with his annoyingly broad shoulders. "You left me at the arena."
"You lied about Liam."
"I never said Liam texted you," Hendrix says, closing the door, not bothering to turn on the light. "You assumed that."
"Oh, so it's my fault?" I jab a finger at his chest. "You pretended to be Liam to lure me to that game, and now you're standing here acting innocent?"
"I thought Gran sent the text!"
"Right." I roll my eyes. "And I'm supposed to believe you had no idea?"
"Actually, yeah." He runs a hand through his hair, still damp from the snow. In the dim moonglow through the window, it looks darker than the light brown it is in the daylight. "Look, I was just as surprised as you were when Liam said he didn't text you."
"You watched me make a fool of myself!"
"I didn't—" He stops, exhaling sharply. "Look, I genuinely thought you knew Gran and Aunt Goldie sent that text. They're always pulling stuff like this."
"Then why did you go along with it?"
"Because—" He stops, frustrated. "I don't know. I wanted to spend time with you. And maybe because for once you weren't glaring at me like I'd kicked your puppy?"
"Oh please." I cross my arms.
“Contrary to what you might think, I'm not actually trying to make your life miserable." His voice softens. "I was worried sick! I texted Emily at midnight to make sure you were okay.”
"Wait, you have Emily's number?" I scold myself for this jealous feeling that pops up.
"She's married to my teammate." He raises an eyebrow. "We occasionally communicate."
I blink. “Yeah. I knew that.”