Chapter 48
Forty-Eight
I return to the Hamilton household on the morning of cookie day. It’s strange coming straight to his parents’ house, but I’ll see Butch later, after he returns from a client meeting with his father.
All females from Thanksgiving are present, plus two cousins close to Liz’s age—Shelly and Barbara.
Jerri wasn’t kidding about the production aspect.
Long folding tables are set up for decorating, one holding tubs layered with the hundreds of sugar cookies and gingerbread men baked yesterday.
Jerri names the new varieties underway: cherry pecan balls, thumbprint cookies, molasses crinkles, peanut butter kisses, and Grandma Gray’s melt-in-your-mouths.
Christmas music from the radio plays softly in the background as we chat, bake, snack, and decorate.
Once I’ve helped Jerri make several batches, I’m steered to a table brimming with royal icing colors, assorted sprinkles, edible silver balls, and small candies. The two grandmothers, Dot and Mabel, are old pros and deftly school me on technique .
I’ve never decorated a cookie in my life, but I get the hang of it quickly and enjoy the deliberation and experimentation. After the first half-dozen, mine even start to look pretty.
Funny stories are swapped, good-natured teasing abounds, and more cookies get produced than in a commercial bakery. I’m not sure what to label the sensation blanketing me…it’s like being transported into a heartwarming holiday movie.
Emmy races in—this girl favors running as her main mode of transportation—plops into the chair next to me and is about to grab a blank when Liz reminds her to wash her hands. Emmy drags her feet to the sink, but she cleans up without complaint.
“Need any help?” I ask when she returns. As if. Jerri said this was tradition; the kid’s probably been at it for years.
She shakes her head. “I’m literally going to make a whole gingerbread family.”
I give her an encouraging smile, inwardly cracking up over her constant use of literally . “That sounds fun.”
Emmy lines up two large gingerbread bodies next to a couple of smaller ones. Wasting no time, she dives in with different colors, obliterating each with candy. It’s an utter mess when she finishes—a big, beautiful mess. Her expression lights up as she shows everyone her masterpieces.
Later that afternoon, Butch strides in and the sight of him makes my stomach dip. The energy between us crackles…everything supercharged since Thanksgiving. He’s greeted warmly by the crew, and when Jerri slips her arm around his waist, he stares down at her affectionately and squeezes her closer.
“Smells terrific in here. I think I just gained five pounds. And by the amount of frosting on Emmy’s face, she ate more than she decorated.”
I’m midway through adorning another sugar cookie when he heads my way .
“Hey, gorgeous.” He gives me a tender kiss on the top of my head before he slides into the chair his daughter recently vacated. His smile reaches those pretty eyes, and all I can think is, mine.
“Hey, Lumberjack.”
“ What did she call you?” Liz asks. Butch ignores her, casting me a withering stare.
“Lumberjack,” I supply, unable to suppress my grin.
Liz guffaws. “ Priceless .”
Butch glares at her. “You will refrain from ever repeating it, dear sister.”
“Good luck with that, Paul Bunyan!” she teases.
“I’d like to find me a big, strong lumberjack,” Shelly says.
“Me too, sweetie,” Grandma Mabel adds.
“Jesus Christ,” Butch mutters. “I’ve got to get out this sorority. When are you coming over?”
I stop icing and bite back a laugh. “We’re wrapping up, so soon.”
He presses a kiss to my lips…in front of everyone. And believe me, this crowd’s watching—albeit discreetly. “Hurry,” he whispers.
“‘Bye lumberjack,’ on three,” Liz rallies. “One, two, three.”
Butch bolts for the foyer.
“BYE, LUMBERJACK!” we chant in chorus, chasing him out the door before we burst into fits of laughter.
After tucking Emmy in for the night, Butch joins me downstairs.
She let go of the “It’s a slumber party, so Jacqui needs to sleep with me” pleas once her father explained that grown-ups stay up longer and will be sharing a bed when it’s our bedtime.
She clutched Lucky as a consolation as I read her a story (another plea).
I wasn’t denying her that too—but was I ever unprepared for how such a small act would choke me up.
Maybe it’s the memories of my own dad reading to me, or how important books and writing are to me now, or simply that it’s the first time I’ve read a storybook to a child.
Butch stokes the fire to roaring and joins me on the sofa. I place my mug of hot tea on the coffee table and curl up next to him.
“I could get used to this,” he says quietly. He presses a kiss to my temple, and I sigh into it.
“You have no idea how easily I could get used to this.” With each hour logged with Butch, Emmy, and his family, I swear my heart recalibrates—almost tangibly—as if it’s patching up all the holes. It’s wonderful…and terrifying.
I tilt my head to look at him, and he tucks me closer into his side, cupping my jaw. When our mouths merge, it’s soft with an undercurrent of heat.
We part, and his expression turns roguish. “Ready to watch the movie?”
My eyes narrow, mining for clues. “Which one?”
“Something tells me you’re going like what I rented.” He picks up the remote, clicks a button, and the VHS plays.
The 20 th Century Fox logo appears with its signature searchlights and drumbeats.
It fades to black before an old timey movie screen pops up.
As the sepia film rolls, so do spots, scratches, and flecks as if it’s aged celluloid.
I squeal as soon as I see “The Hole in the Wall Gang,” then clamp my palms over my mouth, remembering that Emmy’s sleeping.
It’s Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid .
Some couples have songs, but us? We have a movie. This one. Butch’s answering grin only makes me happier. Pulling his face toward mine, I press my lips against his cheek. “You’re the best.”
The title sequence begins, and I settle in next to my man to rewatch this gem. Across the two hours, we hold hands, steal kisses, and laugh. Once it ends, we creep up to his bedroom, settling into his huge bed like we’ve done it a thousand times. We’re both zonked, content in each other’s arms.
“G’night, Sundance.”
“G’night, Butch.”
We share one last kiss in the dark, and my eyes close.
I could get used to this, I think again, drifting into sleep.