Nog or Never
Melissa Williams
Synopsis - Nog or Never
I work in security. But I couldn’t protect her feelings.
Last Christmas, she gave me her heart. And the very next day, I left the country.
Now I’m home for the holidays…and for good. I know it will take more than an apology and a couple holiday puns to win her back over, but if there’s any time of year to wish for a miracle – this is it. She may be my best friend’s little sister, but I’m ready to put it all on the line for her. It's time to make her see she's always been mine. It's now or never.
copyright @ 2020 by Melissa Williams
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission except in the case of brief quotations included in critical articles and reviews.
For information, please contact the author.
This a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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This is Fine
Belinda
Whoever invented the phrase “third time’s the charm” can go suck a major dick. It’s a bloody lie.
I’m standing in the middle of our teaching kitchen, hands on hips, wondering how I got myself into a situation like this. I’m working with grown adults. People who have important jobs, families and mortgages. Yet they always, always, without any kind of prompting, play with the icing bags like they are dicks.
Wait. That didn’t sound right. The adults are the dicks. The icing bags were pretend penises—stroked and made to squirt white icing like they were…you know.
When Lexi, the assistant shop manager of Bake, Rattle & Roll, pitched the idea of the bakery offering evening baking classes, I had been excited. I saw it as my chance to really prove myself to the bakery owners that I could step up and take more responsibility. I had been wanting to take on more for a while but hadn’t built up the nerve. It was also my opportunity to show them that I was a skilled baker—my specialty being cookies.
In less than a month, the idea had been approved, planned out, advertised and executed. It all happened before my eyes, but I still couldn’t believe how fast we got up and running. The response from our customers-turned-students was amazing. And it didn’t hurt that when we launched our first series of classes, it was around the holidays.
So, here I stand, wrapping up the final stage of my Christmas cookie class and wondering how to politely tell the woman to the left of me that her icing stroking technique is too aggressive and not long enough. There is no way she’s going to get enough out with her small strokes to line the edges of the cookie. The things I do for my love of baking.
Before I’m able to say anything, however, a large glob of icing flies through the air, crossing the aisle in a beautiful arc before landing on another baker’s cooling cookies. There’s a dramatic gasp as the icing makes a splat sound, then the room goes quiet. My eyes flare as I watch the other woman, whose tray of decorated Christmas trees and stars, screams in outrage at her ruined cookies.
Everyone freezes.
“My cookies!”
I knew this would happen. I saw it in my mind’s eye. It’s happened in both the classes I taught, but this time, no one is laughing. Not even the icing pumper.
“I am so—”
“You’ve ruined Christmas!”
“Ma’am,” I begin, hoping to settle her down, but she doesn’t let me finish. Her hand flicks up, palm facing me. I shut up immediately, stunned by the rude gesture.
“These cookies were for my grandson. I can’t give him a Christmas tree cookie that looks like someone threw up on it.”
Throw up isn’t anywhere near what the icing looks like.
“It could be snow,” I try to placate her. “Super Christmas-y.” She shoots me a death glare. Okay. Next tactic. “How about you take some of mine? The ones I demonstrated on? He’ll get double the goodies that way.”
She purses her lips, studying me. Her eyes dart from me to the cookies that are resting on the kitchen island that I was teaching from. An eyebrow goes up. This woman is truly impressive with her stern and unflinching looks. With her arms still crossed, she walks over to my cookies, inspects them, then with a shake of her head she replies, “Fine.”
Fine. Like taking the teacher’s cookies is a burden to bear. It’s taking everything in me not to roll my eyes. I understand why she’s upset but come on. At the end of the day, no matter the icing placement or what the cookie design is, they all got eaten and turned into crumbs.
And with that thought…
“Okay! That’s it for tonight’s Christmas cookie class. I want to thank you all for coming. There are festive boxes at the back that you can use if you want and there are also coupons for a free coffee and donut at Bake, Rattle & Roll. Again, thank you so much for coming. Happy holidays!”
There’s a chorus of thank yous, happy holidays and Merry Christmases said back to me. A couple people hang back to ask questions about other classes and ingredient substitutions for allergies as everyone else grabs their coats. It takes a while for the class to clear out. When the last person leaves, waving as they make their way down the stairs, I let out a long breath.
I am exhausted.
Taking my hair out of the tight bun that I’d had it in to teach, I let the long blond strands free. Massaging my scalp, I walk to the far window wanting to see what the weather’s like. I groan when all I see is white flurries. Damn it, the storm started early.
I shouldn’t be surprised. Winter in Toronto is no joke. We were lucky we even got fall-like weather this year at all. Yet, as I watch sheet after white sheet of snow fall past the window, I grow more concerned over how I’m getting home. The walk to the subway isn’t far, but there’s no way the sidewalks are going to be shoveled. Meaning I’ll have to trudge through multiple inches of snow, through the almost-dead streets. That doesn’t sound fun after a long day of working and teaching. My feet were starting to ache.
It takes me close to an hour to clean up the kitchen and load the dishwasher. Doing one last spot check, I make my way over to the closet that holds all my winter gear and my backpack. Reaching inside, I search one of the large pockets for my phone. I don’t like to have it out while I’m teaching. My Babcia’s constantly texting me. While I love my grandmother to the moon and back, it’s a huge distraction.
My fingers hit a hard surface. As I yank my phone out, the screen lights up and I see nine messages waiting for me from Babcia and my older brother. The small chuckle dies in my throat. Why in the world would he be…oh no.
I quickly scroll through my notifications, my heart thumping frantically as I read.
BABCIA: When does your class end?
BRENDAN: How are you getting home after your class?