Swallowing the lump of dread in my throat, I nod as I put the final drop of almond extract in my recipe. “Fine. Okay. I’ll do it.” Brendan side-hugs me. “But I swear on every snowflake in the world, as soon as the last child sits on Santa’s lap, I’m out of there.”
“That’s fine.”
“Good.” Rubbing my sweaty hands over my thighs, I watch as the mixer kneads the dough for my spritz cookies. I’d developed a craving for them over the last week. Not because Luke mentioned loving them, no way.
Brendan steps up beside me, eyeing the bowl. “Are you making spritz cookies?”
I know exactly what’s coming. “Yes,” I say as nonchalantly as I can.
“Aren’t those Luke’s favorite?”
“Are they?”
I turn the mixer off, stepping away from my brother and dumping the dough on my board. I can’t look at him. He’ll read me like a book.
“So things between you and Luke are…” He drags out the sentence, waiting for me to fill in the blank.
I shrug. “I don’t know? Fine? We’re friends, Brendan.”
“Even after what he did?”
“He’s your best friend and close with the family. It’s not like I can avoid him,” I snort, hoping to hell he’s buying what I’m saying.
He makes a rude noise, flicking a stray chunk of dough at me. I can’t let myself think about Luke too much. I won’t go down that road again, wishing for something that will never happen. I know Luke cares about me and his driving me home was a kindness he did for my brother.
“Whatever,” Brendan sighs as he hoists himself off my sofa. “I’ll see you at the event. Bring some of those cookies.”
Following him to the front door, I wave goodbye and flip the lock. Walking back into the kitchen, I pull out my cookie press and slip on the shape cutter that I want. Spritz cookie dough is dryer than regular cookie dough, so I don’t play with it as I make a long sphere. Pushing the dough into the press and attaching the back piece, I slowly begin pushing out small amounts.
A memory of me making these cookies and Luke running into the kitchen to steal a cooling tray of treats flashes across my mind.
As if he knows I’m thinking about him, my phone starts Ho Ho Ho-ing, alerting me to a text. I see Luke’s name flash across the screen.
A warm wave of emotion spreads through my body. Since driving me home last week, Luke has been blowing up my phone. He hasn’t asked me out—as friends, obviously—but he’s been texting me every day. Mundane things like how he remembered how much he hates shoveling snow or how the movie The Santa Clause was a classic. They’re silly messages with no substance but I eagerly anticipate them.
Plus, no matter what, we were friends.
I internally roll my eyes at myself. Sure, friends. It’s felt anything but friendly. There’s always an undercurrent of sensuality. His words were kind and humorous, but they also had double meanings.
I didn’t expect seeing him last week would affect me so dramatically. I truly thought I was over him. My schoolgirl crush dead and buried. Out of sight, out of mind, and all that other crap people say.
One stupid glance at him though, and every emotion came flooding back.
My heart couldn’t be that fickle, could it? He’d left. In the dead of night, I remind myself. But it doesn’t matter. The butterflies in my stomach turn into fire-breathing dragons at the memory of him leaning down and kissing my cheek.
“Oh my God, Belinda. Knock it off,” I mutter to myself, using the finger with the least amount of grease to swipe my phone open. He’s sent me a picture. I almost flip the pan I’m pressing dough onto as I open the attachment. It’s him, pouting with some kind of burnt object in his hands and the caption: Wish you were here.
My stomach flutters at his words. The bastard really knows how to tempt me. By showing me a devilishly handsome picture of himself and a poor baked good that was killed before its time.
Fudge bars, I was falling in love with him all over again.
I am being dramatic. So over-the-top dramatic that I’m even annoyed at myself, but it can’t be helped. Now that I’m here, staring at what I have to wear, reality is hitting me. Hard.
The costume is horrible. The pointy ears and shoes, horrific. And the worst part of it is that we aren’t dressing up as fun, colorful elves. Nope. The costume is straight out of my Babcia’s curio cabinet of nightmares. Old-fashioned overalls and everything. What the hell have I agreed to?
Covering my face with my hands, I hide my pout.
“Just don’t look at the outfit. Put it on blindly and don’t think about it, Bee.”
I stop breathing. Slowly, my hands glide down my face until I can see Luke through my fingers. This can’t be happening.
“Why are you here?”
His quick smile has my stomach flipping. “Isn’t it obvious?” He throws his arms wide and poses. I’m so focused on his gorgeous face and that damn dimple in his chin that I didn’t see his outfit. His very red, and very padded outfit.
Son of a nutcracker. He’s Santa.
“Crap.” The word slips out of my mouth as I take him all in. It’s not fair that he looks this good in a Santa suit. The red is a little too harsh for his skin tone and the padding is ridiculous, but it doesn’t hide his strong, muscular form. His thigh muscles strain the fabric of the pants then fall loosely down, and his shoulders are testing the limits of the jacket. Thank goodness that his fake belly is covering his crotch because I am not sure I’m ready to see the size of that package. He is the hottest Santa I’ve ever seen.
It isn’t just the kids who will go nuts when they see him. I’m pretty sure some of the moms and dads out there will want to sit on his lap too.
“Bee? You okay?”
“Y-yes! Yes! Sorry, got lost in my head for a second.” I run a hand down my ponytail nervously. “Umm, did Brendan con you into helping too?”
“Yup. Said I owed him or some shit since I’m crashing at his place. It’s not like I’m in his way. He works nonstop.”
“This is true,” I agree. As a firefighter, Brendan works crazy hours for long periods of time. “Where is he, by the way? If I’m doing this he better be here for moral support.”
“I heard him a while ago, but I haven’t seen him,” Luke says, taking his eyes off me to scan the area. “How the hell did he get you to agree to be an elf? I thought you hated elf culture.”
“Oh my God, you make me sound like a horrible person and a lunatic. It’s not that I hate all elves. Buddy the elf is okay in my books.”
“Oh good. I’m glad that a human raised by elves and dressed like one passes your high bar.”
“Hey! I like Wayne and Larry too.”
“Who the—”
“You’ve never watched Prep and Landing?” My voice is way too loud for this conversation. Bringing my hand up to my temple, I shake away my shock. I need to get back on track. “Why are you teasing me about this?” I ask him on a laugh. “You of all people know why I hate elves.”
“I do. That’s why I asked how Brendan got you to agree to this.”
“I’m doing it for the kids. He even showed me pictures of some of them from the last event.”