With a satisfied nod, I head for the kitchen to fix a quick lunch. Ricky is picking me up here later. In the meantime, I’ve got approximately seven hours to figure out a Christmas present for tomorrow. Grabbing my laptop, I head for my home office which should really be called the arts and crafts room and get busy.
10
Enrique
“What’s going on, Boss?” Jake looks surprised as I throw my truck in park and jump out, grabbing several bags of groceries out of the truck bed.
“Is Maggie here? I need a favor.” I take the steps up to his porch two at a time and follow him into the house.
“Sure, she’s in the kitchen, everything okay?” Jake leads the way towards the back of their farmhouse, down a small hall dividing the living and dining rooms. The kitchen faces the fields, sunlight streams through the windows over the sink where Maggie is leaning, sipping from a mug of coffee. She turns and greets us with a smile.
“Well you look like a man on a mission,” Maggie laughs as I unceremoniously pile the groceries on the counter and start pulling everything out of the bags. I pull a folded piece of paper out of my pocket and hand it over. She takes it, curious, unfolding it and smoothing it on the table.
“I need your help Maggie, I’m going to attempt to bake.” I affect a serious tone and she plays along, gasping in mock horror. “It’s true,” I nod solemnly, trying not to smile. “I want to make Freya a fruitcake for Christmas.”
“Why on earth do you want to make a fruitcake?” Maggie shudders. “They’re awful! Just a big brick of gummy blech,” she pulls a horrible face. “How about some cookies? Or fudge?” Maggie wheedles in a coaxing voice. “Those are delicious options, guaranteed to impress your swee-eetie.” I shake my head slowly, smiling.
“Sorry Mags, it has to be fruitcake. If it goes well, someday I’ll tell you the whole story.” Carefully pulling a decent bottle of bourbon out of the last bag, I set it on the table and meet her eyes.
“My, my, my,” Maggie sighs, laughing softly, “you have got it bad for this girl.” She walks over to the pantry and grabs an apron off the hook, tying it quickly around her waist. She grabs another and holds it out to me. I gamely take it and tie it on, glancing at Jake as I fumble with the strings. He’s tapping at his phone, a look of concentration on his face.
“How do you-,” Jake mutters, “oh, no wait, I got it, nevermind,” I hear the fake shutter noise as he takes a photo. Looking up, he shrugs and grins. “Just documenting the moment, Boss, I wouldn’t want your mom to miss a monumental first,” he chuckles, laughing harder when Maggie brandishes a wooden spoon in his direction. Braving a smack of the spoon to his shoulder, he pulls her in for a hug, kissing her quickly. “I’ll just be outside,” he lets her loose, smiling as he grabs his coat off the back of a kitchen chair. With a quick wave, he’s out the door.
“Where did you find this recipe?” Maggie smoothes the paper again, reading through the ingredients.
“I have a shoebox full of my grandma’s old recipes,” I smile, missing her for a moment. “It was funny, she had a recipe she cut out of a newspaper and then made notes, a LOT of notes, about how to change it so that it would actually be good.” I point at the paper. “Let’s hope Grandma invented the perfect fruitcake.”
11
Freya
I’m waiting nervously in the kitchen when I hear Ricky’s truck rumble into my driveway. We exchanged a couple of texts this afternoon, but he’s remained mysterious about our plans for the evening. He knocks on the door and a burst of heat rockets through my chest when I open it because damn. A dark gray quilted flannel work shirt shows off his broad shoulders and Ricky’s jeans fit just right, slung low on his hips. He hooks a thumb in his pocket and grins at me.
“Evenin’ Freya, you look beautiful.” Ricky waits while I lock the door behind me, then slides an arm around my waist and walks me to his truck. He’s got Christmas songs playing on the radio and his hand is warm on my knee. After a short drive downtown, I’m surprised when we pull into the brewery and park the truck. He sees the confusion on my face.
“Just a pitstop, we’re going to walk from here,” he explains, handing me one of the two travel cups in the cup holders of the truck. He takes the other for himself and raises it in a toast.
“Here’s to keeping warm and spending Christmas together.”
“I’ll definitely drink to that, cheers,” I tap the edge of my cup against his and take a careful drink. A lovely combination of hot apple cider and cinnamon schnapps rolls down my throat, warming me to my toes and I sigh appreciatively.
“Oh that’s perfect, that is.” I take another drink and glance over to find him watching me, his eyes full of heat. He leans in, his hand sliding behind my neck to anchor me as he kisses me. He flicks his tongue lightly on my lips, tasting me as I part them to let him kiss me harder. I’m about ready to climb in his lap when he breaks the kiss, breath coming fast. He licks his lips and smiles.
“Tastes even better on you, Freya.” He kisses me again, slowly, clearly unaware that my heart has headed into full cardio workout mode. Or maybe very aware of what he’s doing to me...that would be really, really hot. In an effort not to turn into a giggling puddle of goo, I break the kiss this time, looking up at him through my lashes. He groans, his hand sliding out of my hair, a finger brushing over my bottom lip as he sits back.
“Plans...I had plans for the evening,” Ricky shakes his head as if getting the cobwebs out and we both laugh. “Some of them involve kissing you, but I’ve got to stop or I’m going to forget the rest.” He runs a hand through his hair and I laugh when he leans over and quickly nuzzles just below my ear, his whiskers tickling me. Getting out of the truck, he comes around and meets me as I open my door. Offering me a hand down, he keeps our fingers linked and tucks my hand into the crook of his elbow. I love that he can’t stop touching me...I love that I feel the same way about him, I feel like he sees me, I feel special.
Bringing our toddies with us, we begin a leisurely stroll up Main Street, enjoying the lights and window displays. I catch a few curious stares as we walk by, people I’ve known for years, many of them recognize Ricky and stop to say hello. The Main Street has a festive air as the ‘last shopping day’ keeps stores open into the evening. Stopping outside a large consignment shop, Ricky opens the door, ushering me inside.
“First order of business?” He wiggles his eyebrows mysteriously. “Ugly sweater shopping. I have a reputation to uphold and a trophy to keep.”
“Well this sounds serious,” I’m excited, I secretly love ugly sweater parties. “Who are you competing against?”
“Jake, Maggie, my entire extended family when I video call them tomorrow,” he laughs, “I’ve won by unanimous decision six years running, since the first time we started wearing ugly sweaters on Christmas Day.”
“Please tell me there are plenty of photos of previous winning entries,” I plead, laughing.