Chapter 20
Some families start baking cookies in October. My Italian Catholic grandmother was one of those bulk cookie-baking psychos—and now, six years after leaving the anti-holiday cult, so am I.
Baking and freezing: the rule of law for bulk batches. The last item on Missy’s list is actually the first we need to tackle. “Bake assorted Christmas cookies” may seem like no big deal to some, but to do it right, it’s akin to a military operation.
A short five-minute drive later, we stride into Cherry Mart still fully decked out as Mr. and Mrs. Claus. Cue more double-takes and craned necks. Maybe it’s because now I’m on a mission, or maybe I’m just getting used to it, but the extra attention is starting to feel… normal.
Just inside the sliding doors, Eben reaches for a basket. I shake my head and point to a cart. “You don’t storm the North Pole with a snowball,” I say, my hands on my hips like I’m a general leading her troops into battle.
“More like General Claus,” he says under his breath as he swaps out the basket for a cart.
“I heard that,” I say, levelling a glare he ignores as he pushes a cart through the next set of sliding doors.
He slows and gazes wistfully at the bakery section, eyeing a tray of pre-frosted cookies.
“What are you looking at?” I swat his ass, playful. His eyes flick to mine, darker than before. My cheeks go pink. Too much?
“Nothing,” he whistles innocently.
I clear my throat and steer us to the baking aisle—my natural habitat: flour, sugar, sprinkles, comfort.
“Unless you’re a busy mom of four or recovering from surgery, store-bought cookies are a crime against humanity.”
He grins. “General Claus has spoken.”
I’ve been baking solo for years, so unlike some people, I don’t need to spend hours scrolling Pinterest. I’ve got that sugary lineup on lock: my famous red-and-green M&M cookies, snowballs, Italian sprinkle cookies, lemon bars, and classic iced cutouts in the shape of the usual suspects—Santa, Rudolph, Frosty, and the whole North Pole gang.
I waltz down the aisle, tossing flour, sprinkles, sugar, and tubs of frosting into the cart. A red, green, and gold sugar explosion stacks up fast.
“How many cookies are we making?” Eben grimaces as another bag of flour hits the cart with a clang.
“Let’s see—fifty-six residents, ten staff, and we should factor in like fifty more for friends, family, and the randoms... so, five hundred cookies?”
He pales whiter than Santa’s beard. “F-five hundred?” he sputters.
“At least!” I chirp—just as a little wreath-shaped baking tin catches my eye. How is it that I don't own one of these yet?
I toss it in.
“What’s that for?” he winces.
“Oh, nothing…” I say, all fake innocence.
He eyes the tin, then Missy’s clipboard. “Wait, are we making a cake too? It’s not even on the list!”
“It’s wreath-shaped!” I bat my lashes like I’m not downright unhinged.
He runs a hand through his hair, deliciously tousled. Two teenage girls pass us with girly giggles and googly eyes. Eben doesn’t notice.
“Are you quitting your job this week? Did you win the lottery? How do you have time to make five hundred cookies and a cake?”
I grin. “You mean, how do we have time?”
His eyes almost bug out of his head.
“Relax, it’s easy,” I say. “I’ve single-handedly kept the Beeman family in cookies for years.”
“Who are the Beemans?” he asks, equal parts stressed and amused.
“Teddy’s family,” I explain. “I’ve spent Christmas with them every year since leaving the cult.
” I lob a bag of powdered sugar into the cart.
“His mom’s a piece of work, but she goes all in—matching pajamas, Christmas caroling, homemade eggnog, the whole nine yards.
I know they’re not my real family, but Christmas with the Beemans makes me feel like I get to participate in life.
Real life. Full of joy and freedom. Not cult life, which is all fear and control. ”
I don’t look at him, but I feel his eyes searching for a crack in the fortress. Nary a tear will slip through.
“What about you?” I ask him, feigning interest in a six-in-one sprinkle container I already own. “What do you do for Christmas, O Holly Jolly Hater?”
“Absolutely nothing,” he says, crossing his arms and leaning on the cart handle. My eyes traitorously flick to his biceps flexing against the red velvet. “And it’s glorious.”
“Nothing? Nothing at all?”
“Beer, a rotisserie chicken, and football on Christmas Day,” he shrugs. “As God intended it.”
The joke makes me flinch—he notices.
“Sorry,” he says, softer. “Bad joke.”
I shake it off. “You don’t even celebrate with your mom?”
“I try to visit almost every day—but it’s just another day. I don’t mention Christmas. She can handle me as Santa, but the last time I tried to give her a gift as Eben… it did not go well.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “That’s really hard. I’m sorry.”
He shrugs, suddenly fascinated by a set of Betty Crocker decorating tips.
I lean over the cart, mouth near his ear. “You really think I don’t already own a sixty-piece set of stainless steel frosting tips?”
“Just the tips?” He turns, sadness swapped for mischief, one brow arched.
My jaw drops.
“Sorry—couldn’t resist.” He winks and plants a quick kiss on my cheek.
Butterflies take off in my stomach.
“Come on, General Claus,” he says, steering the cart. “Let’s get this over with.”
Eben hauls six bags per arm up my stairs. I try to take one or two, but he doesn’t let me.
“You could make more than one trip,” I say.
He scoffs. “Real men don’t make multiple trips. How dare you.”
“Ever heard of toxic masculinity?”
“No, never,” he says—and immediately starts doing bicep curls with the bags.
I roll my eyes and then come face to face with my arch nemesis: the deadbolt.
I hold my breath as I fumble with the keys.
I’ve lived here five years, and it’s still hit-or-miss if I can get this damn lock to cooperate.
My fine motor skills tap out under pressure, and having an audience only exacerbates the issue.
Not to mention I’m definitely having nerves about allowing this hot, holiday-hating man into my tinsel-torched apartment.
I try the lock once, twice, three times. On the fourth attempt, I’m seeing stars.
“Are you sure you live here?” Eben jokes. “Or are we breaking into some other Christmas nut’s place?”
He tilts his head at the massive wreath on my door, framed with matching garland. Two poinsettias flank the welcome mat that reads Oh What Fun! between cartwheeling Santas.
His teasing smile falters when he notices the sweat bead at my brow. Without another word, he sets down the bags—a five-pound sack of sugar thudding to the concrete—takes my rhinestone-studded snowflake keychain, slides my house key into the lock, and with a smooth twist: click.
“Thanks,” I sigh. “You’d never guess I’ve lived here a million years.”
He grabs the bags, and I shove the door open with all the dramatic flair I can muster.
“Welcome to the Christmas Palace,” I announce in my best Welcome to Jurassic Park voice, flipping on the lights.
Cue the John Williams music.
“Whoa,” Eben says in awe.
He steps across the threshold like he’s entering another dimension—where a girl who can barely afford an oil change has single-handedly turned her apartment into a winter wonderland.
In the corner, my brand-new seven-foot tree twinkles like the night sky—hardly a speck of green peeks through the army of vintage ornaments and candy-cane ribbon.
My coffee table is a full-blown Christmas village, complete with ice skaters and a tiny post office with a special mailbox just for Santa letters.
Every flat surface is buried in garland.
Even the couch is decorated with an assortment of red-and-white striped throw pillows and throws.
Icicles hang from the ceiling, ready to impale me should Cherryville have a rare earthquake or someone slam the door.
Even my giant nutcracker levels me with judging eyes.
This is too much. You are too much.
Eben spins in a slow circle to take it all in. “This is…” He stops. “Something.”
He looks dizzy. And a little green.
“Is it over the top?” I ask.
“Well, yeah,” he says—like it’s obvious. “But in the best way.”
Warmth spreads across my chest. “Really?” I ask, hopeful now. Like maybe I’m not too much after all.
“You know how I feel about Christmas—and that hasn’t changed.” He steps toward the tree, arms still loaded with bags, an admiring twinkle in his eye. “But I can appreciate an artist when I see one at work.”
I beam, ear to ear. Eben’s looking at me like he likes me. Like, really likes me. Christmas-loving, cult-bruised little ol’ me.
Then my phone buzzes in my pocket.
“Where should I…?” he asks, fingers starting to go purple.
“Oh—sorry! Kitchen’s around that wall,” I say, pointing past my dining table, drowning in garland and approximately one hundred red candles.
He disappears around the corner. I fish out my phone—expecting Ally, not Cassie. Again. Jesus H. Christ.
The warmth vanishes. My chest tightens.
Ignore.
“You need to take that?” Eben asks, poking his head back around the wall.
“Nope,” I say too fast, shoving my phone back in my pocket hard enough to test the seams.
His smile fades. “Everything okay?”
“Spam,” I lie, pressing a hand to my sternum to calm my racing heart.
“You sure?” he asks, taking a step closer.
No, I’m not okay. I need to sit down. Maybe lie down with a wet towel over my eyes. But these cookies aren’t going to bake themselves.
“Let’s get this dough on the road!” I chirp, forced cheer in every syllable.