Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Ihate to leave plans unfinished, but I need an emotional break.
Braxton called this morning and gave me a little peace of mind with news that Ivy is already up and walking and the babies are settled into the new hospital.
It wasn’t much peace of mind—they are still away from home and me—but hearing the news was like catching the first few notes of “All I Want for Christmas Is You” drifting through the air on a hot August day and realizing the best time of year, along with cooler temperatures, is right around the corner.
Plus, after folding Nia and Amani’s clothes had me fighting back tears, I knew I needed to hold on to that newfound hope.
So, I’m switching gears and turning to Christmas Prep.
Specifically, cookie baking. I’ve got my favorite apron on, have lined the counters with the ingredients for Dad and Ivy’s famous shortbread cookies, and I’m alone.
Grant’s in his room hopping on some “very important” meetings so I get to bake cookies without the pressure of his gaze following my every move.
I hum “Deck the Halls” while studying the recipe card filled out in Dad’s neat script.
After years of enjoying the benefits of him and Ivy making these, it’s daunting to be the one measuring the flour, cutting the butter, and trying to make these cookies look like hearts instead of lopsided snowmen.
But I press on, reminding myself this is only a practice batch.
When I master them and Ivy is home to eat them, it’ll be like Dad’s right here with us.
When the cookies are as close to perfection as I can make them, I dust flour off my apron and slide the pan into the oven.
Minutes later the timer dings, I pull them out—and my shoulders sink. Instead of the neat little hearts filled with jam that went in, out comes one giant, brittle cookie with jam bleeding intermittently like a horror-filled Christmas crime scene.
I stifle a groan.
“Something in here smells good,” Grant says, hand rubbing across his stomach as he rounds the corner. He stops when we sees the pan. After a moment his eyes flick to mine, then back to the pan, and a twitch plays across his lips. “What happened?”
“What do you think happened? I tried making cookies and got this lump instead.” His lips tremble from holding in his laughter and I cross my arms, shaking my head. “Grant, I am being so serious right now when I say your life is in mortal danger.”
He holds his hands up in surrender but still approaches. He breaks off a piece, blowing briefly before popping it in his mouth. I cringe when he bites down. Shortbread cookies should not be that crunchy straight from the oven.
“Not bad,” Grant says after a hard swallow. “Flavor’s there. Style too.” His gaze dips to my frilly pink apron. “I like the lace on you.”
I swat his hand away when he runs a finger along the trim.
“The flavor doesn’t matter if the cookies barely come out edible.
” I yank the apron off before Grant can touch it again and toss it on the counter before groaning.
“Oh, God. I’ll have to run to the store for more ingredients.
” I throw my head in my hands for good measure.
“Okay, what’s wrong with that? It’s only a few minutes away, and it’s not like we’re in 2008 dealing with Black Friday shoppers.”
I shake my head. “You don’t know the half of it.”
“If you’re really scared, I’ll be your bodyguard.”
“Ain’t nobody scared,” I scoff, though I actually am. It gets scary trying to buy baked goods when everyone is in full Christmas baking mode. “And you wouldn’t understand because you’re not from here.”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry, Big Daddy Grant will make sure no harm comes to Her Honor,” he says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders like he’s protecting me from an angry hoard.
His body is warm and hard, and perfect for snuggling against.
I immediately push him away.
Grant laughs, unfazed. “Seriously, I’ll come. I need to grab a few things anyway.”
“What things?”
“Groceries, what else? Unless you were planning to survive on turkey and hot chocolate?”
If it meant having peace without Grant around to push my buttons at every turn, yes I absolutely would survive on turkey and hot chocolate as long as I could.
But going off Grant’s challenging stare, I know he’s going to find a way to come shopping with me anyway.
Besides, he’ll wish soon enough he’d just stayed here.
I roll my eyes. “Fine, but I’m driving.”
“Fine, but I’m picking the music,” he says, smirking on his way past me to grab his coat.
Grant’s tune changes real quick when we get to the store and arrive at the baking aisle.
“What…what happened?” he asks, horrified.
It’s pure chaos. It looks like we’ve entered a scene from a post-apocalyptic movie. Shelves emptied out, flour coating the floor, a package of sugar laid out in the middle, torn halfway as if people were fighting over it and they both lost.
“Oh all this?” I say, injecting an air of nonchalance while secretly laughing at Grant’s stunned expression.
“People around here treat their Christmas baking like an Olympic sport. There are always so many cookie exchanges and bake-offs starting as soon as Thanksgiving is over. You’re lucky we didn’t have to come out here on Black Friday. ”
“It gets worse than this?”
“Let’s just put it this way: witnessing a grown man get trampled over some confections is one of my core memories.”
I wheel our cart forward, but Grant latches onto my elbow. “Wait. I don’t think we should go down there.”
“Don’t be ridiculous—”
“Out of my way!”
Grant and I both jump to the side when someone comes barreling by us. It’s an older man with a Santa hat on top of his head and a manic look in his eye scanning where the flour should be.
He shouts, “Hallelujah!” before reaching way, way back into the shelf and emerging with a gold-labeled bag that he holds up high like he’s on top of Pride Rock.
Grant and I both gasp when the man’s head swivels in our direction, giving us the stink-eye and daring us to try rolling up on him and his flour. As if we’d ever be foolish enough. When he finally drops the bag into his basket and clears the aisle, Grant lets out a low breath from behind me.
I smirk at him over my shoulder. “Remind me. Who’s supposed to be guarding who?”
Leaving Grant there sputtering, I make my way to the same shelf the man found his treasure.
There’s one lone store-brand bag of flour left.
After a glance to the left and then right—just in case someone tries to roll up on me—I reach for it with a small thrill of victory.
The second I step back though, my heel slips on the coated floor, sending me airborne.
Before I can hit the ground, warm hands catch me around the waist, and I’m pulled against a solid chest.
“I got you.” Grant’s voice is low and so close to my ear.
I swear, no matter how much I fight it, these little moments keep happening between us—like fate is trying to push us together.
Fate grabs my chin. Fate jerks my face up toward Grant. Fate punches through my chest, squeezes my heart until it forgets how to beat when our eyes lock. And fate anchors my feet to the ground, keeping me right in his arms even though I know I should move away.
Someone behind us pointedly clears their throat and Grant stiffens, tugging me even closer, ready to throw down in defense of me and my flour.
“Eve is that you?” a familiar voice asks.
I gasp and lurch from Grant’s arms so fast that my heel slips. Again. Before I hit the floor, Grant catches me. Again.
“Really?” he mutters, steadying me.
Once I’m upright, I shoo Grant’s hands away then look up and find Ms. Thomas watching the whole spectacle with wide, amused eyes.
Ms. Thomas has lived across the street since before Ivy and I were born and was the only adult on the block who could tell us apart.
She was always so sweet, opening her yard for the neighborhood kids to run wild during the summer and spoiling us with her gingerbread cookies during the holidays.
When Ivy and I moved away for college, Dad would tell us about her stopping by with containers full of pork chops, catfish, or her homemade tamales, and I would tell him to snatch her up so he could keep eating good.
She was a great friend to him and took his passing hard.
“It is you!” Ms. Thomas says, stepping away from her basket with her arms outstretched.
Grant grunts as I shove the flour at him and brace myself for Ms. Thomas’s hug. She’s eighty percent signature faux fur coat, twenty percent sweet grandma, and one hundred percent love.
We exchange hellos and I tell Ms. Thomas how I’m in town to help Ivy. All the while, her gaze volleys between Grant and me. Subtle at first, until she just full-on stares at him while talking to me.
“And who might this tall glass of mulled wine be?” she asks.
I don’t even bother looking at Grant as he lets out a deep chuckle, knowing he’s eating this up.
Ms. Thomas sends me an anything-but-subtle nod. “Well done, Eve. He’s much more of an upgrade from your ex.”
“You can say that again,” Grant mutters in a similar, anything-but-subtle manner.
“Actually,” I cut in. “This is Grant. He’s Braxton’s brother, so Ivy’s brother-in-law. He’s helping me at the house.” I add quickly, “We’re not together.”
Ms. Thomas squints one eye like she doesn’t believe me before her gaze drops to the flour Grant’s holding. “So…are you two baking?”
“I’m the one baking,” I tell her. A light bulb goes off, and I remember the years’ old cookie exchange between her and Dad. “And don’t worry, I’ll make sure to bring you your Christmas Eve dozen this year. It’ll be the same shortbread cookies Dad and Ivy always made.”
Her smile freezes while her eyes tell it all. “Okay, sweetie. You… do that.”
Her living across the street has meant she’s been witness to the smokey aftermath of my many failed baking and cooking attempts. But God bless her, she’s never turned down a lopsided cake or burnt casserole, though I’m pretty sure her tastebuds have suffered.
“Well, I’ll let you two get on with your shopping,” she says.
She scans the flour section, her lips tugging down at the now entirely empty shelves. Then her gaze slides to the bag Grant’s holding.
Now I’m not one to tussle, especially physically and outside of the court room, but I will throw down if it means making Ivy and Dad’s cookies. Christmas won’t be perfect for her without them.
Grant casually slides the flour behind his back. “Well, it was nice meeting you, ma’am,” he says, all polite Southern charm. “And don’t worry, I’ll make sure Eve here doesn’t forget your cookies.”
Looks like I didn’t need to worry about Ms. Thomas coming for the flour. Grant’s clearly recognized her true feelings about my kitchen skills and decided to weaponize it. I’d be insulted if it wasn’t so effective.
Ms. Thomas startles, then recovers with a strained smile. “Thank you. How wonderful of you.”
She snatches a bottle of molasses and scurries off faster than I’ve ever seen her move, though I’m pretty sure I hear her mutter, “Eve is making shortbread. Lord have mercy.”
As she turns the corner, I elbow Grant in his side at his snicker, hiding a smile of my own.