The Christmas Cookie Crush (Arcadian Falls Christmas #4)

Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

Austin

I don’t see Nora again except in passing the next day. Part of me had hoped that since she came by and got a cookie that she might do it again. According to Grampy, she’s usually a daily customer. But this year—because of me, I’m sure—she’s only bought something twice.

And since she tried to flounce off but had to slink back to retrieve her cookie, I think she’s avoiding me again. I didn’t even make fun of her for it. If I’d known she’d avoid me like this, I might’ve let out one of the quips on the tip of my tongue at the sight of her trying to sneak back to snag the cookie.

Would she come by if I made the special elf cookies Grampy always does? The idea’s stuck with me since she mentioned those cookies, and I even tried morphing one of my sketches of her into a cookie design. It’s a totally different medium, though, and I gave up, deciding to ask Grampy about the cookies instead. He said he usually made them about halfway through ChristmasFest, both as a fun change for the regular customers and also to give Nora something to look forward to. He didn’t have a set schedule, so she’d look for them the whole time, her face lighting up with delight when she came and they were there. He also told me where to find his design sketches and notes on how to make them, so I could do it. But how would she know I’d made them if she doesn’t regularly stop in?

I can’t afford to let a batch of cookies sit around to get stale in hopes she might stop by. So if I’m going to make them, I’ll have to seek her out with them.

Or bring them to the open house.

The thought occurs to me as I’m shoveling snow on Wednesday morning before work. It’s an idea. I’d have to see if someone could cover half my shift either today or tomorrow so I have time to decorate them.

I’m not the best cookie decorator, but I’m not the worst either. I’ve been studying Grampy’s instructions. They’re more complicated than my typical efforts in the past, but I’m the grandson of Dale and Diane Fitzpatrick, aren’t I? My mom won first place in the county fair for her cookie decorating multiple times both when she was a teenager here and since we moved away when I was a kid. It’s in my DNA.

Filled with determination, I finish shoveling as quickly as I can then send off a few texts to see if I can get someone to cover for me this afternoon. I’m holding tomorrow in reserve if I can’t get someone to cover today. I’d rather get the cookies going this afternoon so I have plenty of time to get them right. If I end up tossing a batch, I’ll cover the costs myself so Grampy and Nana aren’t out anything. I want them to be perfect. Fortunately, there are pictures of them posted on the bakery’s social media pages, so I have a reference of the finished product in addition to the color recipes and drawings Grampy wrote down.

As the day progresses and I catch glimpses of Nora, I wonder if maybe my plan is a little overkill. She glances my way a few times, and I swear we lock eyes each time, but she quickly looks away.

But maybe if I manage to make these cookies that she clearly loves, she’ll forgive me for being an asshole as a kid?

Why that should matter to me as much as it does, I can’t really say. But I want her to like me. I think we could have fun if she gave me a chance.

Sure, we’re both slammed for the next two weeks so there’s not a whole lot of time for fun, but hopefully she’ll be in town for at least another week or two after Christmas. Even if she’s attending college somewhere else, school won’t start until after New Year’s, so that’s a solid week where she’ll likely be bored after the nonstop activity of ChristmasFest.

Right?

That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway.

Fortunately, Mellie, one of our seasonal part-timers, was thrilled to get a few extra hours. “Thanks for texting me,” she says as she slips into the booth with me. “I’m happy for the extra hours. Gotta pay off those credit cards after Christmas!”

I give her a weak chuckle as I gather my coat from behind the closet-like space in the back. “Glad you’re available. If I ever need someone else, I’ll be sure to text you first.”

She gives me a thumbs up, then turns to the customer waiting to be served, and I slip through the crowds. Even though I’m feeling the need to hurry to the main bakery, I take the long way out and go past the North Pole.

Nora’s there taking photos of a baby in Santa’s lap. She’s bent over at the waist, jiggling a stuffed toy in the baby’s direction, and the sight of her round ass has my mouth watering.

God, I’m an asshole. Because yeah, she’s hot. And if I’m honest with myself, that’s the real reason I want her to like me.

I want to take her out. On a date. I’m not sure what the dating options are around here at this time of year. If we didn’t both work at ChristmasFest, that might be a fun option, but that’s definitely out.

There’s always the dead simple drinks or coffee options. Or even dinner. I’d be happy with that, but I’m not sure she’d consent to that long of a date with me, even if the cookies do their job.

Mouth set in a firm line, I weave my way to the exit. If I want to have any hope of a chance, I have to get these cookies perfect.

The cookies are a disaster.

When I get to the bakery, Sheila gives me a questioning look, but when I explain what I’m doing here, she grins really big. “You’re just like your grandpa,” she says while showing me where everything is in the kitchen.

“Here are the sugar cookies ready to be frosted for tomorrow,” Sheila says. “But if you use them, you better make more to replace them. Otherwise, we’ll run out.”

Taking her advice, I start a batch to replace what I use. I figure half of the already-made batch will be practice, leaving me with half a batch of good ones.

But I’m wrong. So, so wrong.

When the cookies I mix up go into the oven, I pull out the elf blanks that were made this morning to get started.

The first few are pretty rough, but that isn’t much of a surprise. But as I near the end of the batch that was made this morning, they’re somehow getting worse. How is that even possible?

The only saving grace is that the bakery is as busy as the kiosk at ChristmasFest, so no one’s been back to check on me since the cookies went in the oven.

I survey the carnage around me, taking stock. There’s flour everywhere. Deformed looking elf cookies littering every available surface.

Groaning aloud, I run my palms over my face. When I pull my hands down, I see I had green frosting on my right hand, which I’m sure is smeared down my face now too. “Great,” I mutter. “Just fucking amazing.”

Grabbing a towel, I rub it all over my face, pulling it away to look at it and finding more than just green smeared there. Which means I’ve had frosting on my face for a while, probably.

What the fuck am I gonna do?

This was my grand plan, and I’m officially out of the cookies that were made this morning. Looking around, I see if maybe I’m being too hard on myself. Maybe one or two are worth giving to Nora.

But no. If I give her these, she’ll either laugh at me, which would be well deserved, or be offended because she’ll think I think she looks like these cookies with their crooked eyes, blobby noses, or melting faces on the ones I let sit too close to the ovens.

“Fucking hell.”

Sighing, I finish washing the equipment I was planning on washing at the end of the night. But it’ll give the batch of cookies I already made more time to cool while I make another batch to replace the replacement batch.

For something that I expected to be fairly easy, this is taking a long time and costing me a lot of money.

I’m in the middle of drying the mixer bowl when Sheila pushes through the door to the kitchen. She stops in her tracks, her face a mask of shock. “Oh,” is all she says as she surveys my handiwork.

Then she clears her throat and takes me in, covering her mouth with her hand to stifle a laugh. “Oh, honey. You’re a sweetheart, but I think you might be in over your head.” She steps farther inside, walking slowly around the room to look at my cookies.

“Are they as bad as I think?” I ask, my voice a croak. I know the answer. They’re probably worse than I think.

Her brown eyes dance behind her glasses as she looks at me and nods slowly. “Oh, yeah. You can’t give these to that young lady. She’ll think you hate her.”

“Fuuuuuuck,” I groan, cringing at all of it. “She already thinks I hate her.”

Sheila meets my eyes, shaking her head. “And this is an attempt to win her over?”

I shrug one shoulder. “Something like that.”

Looking thoughtful, she scans the mess once more. “Could you give her something else? We have great cake pops. What about picking up a box of those tomorrow?”

Scrubbing my hands over my face, I groan again. “Grampy made these cookies specially for her. And she’s sad he can’t make them this year. She told me about it. I just …” I drop my hands, my shoulders drooping with dejection and exhaustion. “I just wanted to do something nice.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Sheila reaches over and pats my shoulder. She’s older than me, but I’m pretty sure she’s younger than my mom even though she treats me with a sort of overblown motherly affection. Or maybe like a really involved aunt? Since my aunts all live far away, I’ve never had that kind of relationship with them. But since I joined the team last month, Sheila and I have worked closely on scheduling and coordinating the baking for both the shop and the kiosk. We’ve worked out a good system of divide and conquer—the shop is her domain, and the kiosk is mine.

I’m not quite sure how that’ll change once ChristmasFest is over, but I don’t have the time or energy to think that far ahead. Right now, I’m just trying to figure out how to frost cookies for tomorrow.

“Have you eaten?” Sheila asks, seemingly out of nowhere.

I wrinkle my brows and shake my head. “I mean, I ate a couple of my reject cookies. Several of my first tries were truly terrible.” Her eyebrows climb her forehead like the idea of cookies even worse than the ones on display beggars belief. I raise my hands, palms out. “Look. I know it doesn’t seem possible to do worse than these, but I promise you, it is.”

She cracks a smile. “Go.” She makes shooing motions with her hands. “Get yourself some dinner. Relax for a bit. I’ll clean up here. Come back in half an hour.” She looks around again, hands on her hips. “Actually, make that forty-five minutes.”

“Sheila, no. You don’t have to—” My protest dies when she skewers me with a look. Raising my hands in surrender, I step toward the door. “Fine. You win. I’ll get some dinner. But I can clean up my mess.”

“Sweetheart, if I didn’t step in and help you, we’d both be here all night. And I’m too old to pull an all-nighter. I need sleep, and trust me”—she points a finger at me—“you do too. And food. Go. I’ll be fine. If I minded, I wouldn’t offer.”

“Okay,” I mutter, grabbing my jacket. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Take your time. The batch you made has to cool a bit more anyway. No need to rush.”

When I get back, the kitchen is cleaned up, the smell of baking cookies wafting through the air. A batch sits cooling on one counter, and Sheila has another counter prepped for cookie decorating.

Smiling, she motions me over and shows me her handiwork. Ranged in front of her are three Nora elf cookies.

I suck in a breath, torn between gratitude and frustration. “Thank you so much.”

She can obviously hear the “but …” I didn’t give voice to. “But you wanted to do them yourself. I know. These were my practice ones so I can show you how it’s done. I help with the cookie decorating when your Grampy’s out, but you’re right that he always did these himself. This was my first time, so I wanted to make sure I did it right before teaching you the steps. And you can tuck these into the bottom of the box you give her if you want to. Don’t worry.” She bumps me with her hip. “You’ll do at least some of them.”

With Sheila’s help, we finish a dozen cookies in a little over an hour. She did more than me, but I did four all on my own. “Come by tomorrow and I’ll have them boxed up for you,” she says as we toss our used pastry bags and take our other tools to the industrial dishwasher.

“Thank you so much for your help, Sheila.” This time my gratitude is completely unreserved.

She turns to me with a smile and gives me a quick hug. “You’re welcome. Consider it my Christmas gift to you. Don’t forget to pick up the cookies tomorrow!”

“Ha. Like I’d forget after all that work.”

With a grin, she waves me off. “Shoo. I have to finish locking up, which means you have to leave.”

A grin stretching across my own face, I follow her orders, feeling hopeful for the first time in quite a while.