The Christmas Crush

Chapter 20

CHAPTER TWENTY

Midnight approached, the moon luminous, as they returned to the bakery, tipsy from the drinks, the kiss, each other. Elena hummed “Here We Come a-Wassailing,” and Lawrence fumbled with the keys. A perfect night. Yes, she’d all but abandoned her intention to avoid emotional investment. Who could blame her? Delicious dinner, delicious drinks, delicious Lawrence. Why pretend she wasn’t impressed, that she wasn’t a bit captivated?

What a contrast to her normal mood during a date. No wonder, considering the unromantic dating trends. Men on the dating apps had started asking her to come straight to their apartments, not offering the bare minimum of a drink or coffee first. No pretext of wanting to get to know her as a person. The mere fact that Lawrence had made a dinner reservation put him in a class unto himself.

In this enchanted town, with this unicorn of a man, she’d have to be made of steel to resist. She didn’t care what Mel or Priya or sensible Elena thought; she wanted a second date. And a third. This itch got worse the more she scratched it. A little more and I’ll be satisfied.

Lawrence shoved the door. Jingle bells rung as it swung open.

He held out a hand to prevent her from entering. “Do I have to make you pinkie-swear to not spy on my proprietary baking secrets before the tour?”

For the most part, they’d avoided talking about either of their jobs. Elena intended to keep it that way. Derick’s ultimatums didn’t exist here. She wouldn’t tell her boss another word about New Hope, even if he resorted to physical torture instead of sticking to psychological. “That’s the last thing you have to worry about.”

“Then you may proceed.” He made a gallant sweep of his arm and let her walk in before him.

The aroma of fresh-baked cookies was all around her, which made perfect sense but wowed her nonetheless. Nothing like the antiseptic odor in the Sparkle test kitchen. More like walking into a life-size gingerbread house. Like finding a home where someone put cookies in the oven for the kids to eat after school. A home she’d imagined many times growing up. Vanilla, chocolate, sugar as much a part of the building as the beams and exposed ducts above her. A few weeks ago, she’d thought he was crazy to proclaim his cookies could be that much better than Sparkle’s. Now she could smell their superiority all around her.

The tree in the window provided gentle light, and she felt the instant relief warmth brought after an hour outside. Her ice-cold fingers and the tip of her nose came back to life. She took in the worn pine floors, mismatched caf é tables—thrift finds, perhaps—an old bookcase repurposed to hold bags of day-old cookies at half price. A simple black letter board with white letters spelled out the cookie names and prices. In her mind’s eye, she saw the lovely people she’d met tonight, Pamela and Mr. Martinez and others, clustered at the tables, laughing, talking, and eating.

“It’s marvelous,” she told him on a breath.

“Well, thank you.” He dipped his head, looked away. “I won’t lie, I was a tad nervous about bringing you in here. We focused on baking technique in culinary school, only did one class on business and marketing. I know there is a lot I could do better.”

True, her marketing experience noted things that could be improved. Sell branded mugs alongside the cookies to drive up profits, add some chair pads or love seats to encourage people to linger, to buy more. Small changes. She didn’t mention them to Lawrence, too ashamed of how hard she’d hit him with the bakery’s flaws the night of the town hall.

When she’d used her dad’s training to protect herself, to lash out in response to their tense exchange at the meeting, to prove her superiority.

She faced the empty bakery case, hands on hips. “For starters, I’d suggest making cookies to sell, since your sign claims you do.”

“Ow. You appall me,” he said, shaking his head in mock disgust. “I wouldn’t let my babies sit out overnight, exposed to the air, getting all crusty and dry. Break a customer’s tooth, get sued. No, my dear, here at Sweet L’s we bake fresh every day. As you can see, we wrap leftovers well and don’t charge full price for anything short of perfect.”

“Well, they never told me that in Sparkle Cookie school.” Whenever Elena and the marketing team made a visit to a store, the cases were fully stocked. Guidelines dictated a minimum of five per flavor at all times, no excuses. Granted, the rule applied to open hours. It never occurred to her the cookies couldn’t stay in the case.

“Tsk, tsk. How much you have to learn.”

“Is that right, chef?”

Lawrence put a hand to his heart, then he wrapped his arms around her, lifting her off the ground. She yelped in elation as he spun her in a circle, kissing her neck. A trail of heat, the mesmerizing sensation of his mouth on her skin, the friction from the stubble on his chin. A charge raced down her spine. “If you call me that, you’ll drive me wild,” he said.

What happened to the shy guy who took half an hour over dinner to come out of his shell?

“What? Why?” she asked. What was it about that little word?

“Well, that’s some culinary culture right there. It’s a very hierarchical world. In a professional kitchen, the chef makes a request, and everyone automatically agrees. They say, Yes, chef .” He brushed his thumb over her lip. Gentle pressure on a soft spot. “When I hear it from this pretty mouth, years of conditioning make me think, ask to kiss her again and she’ll say—”

“Yes, chef,” she murmured in a low voice, moving her lips to his ear.

He slowed the spin, let her slide down his body to stand. He kissed her again, the tentative wariness from the clearing gone. Evaporated. Any sliver of control she thought she retained went up in flames as he pressed one hand to the small of her back, the other at the nape of her neck. The way he fit their bodies together.

The clothing layers she’d added earlier became too hot all at once, coldness a thing of the distant past. She broke away, unbuttoning her coat with quick fingers. Come to your senses , a little voice said. Shut up , she countered. When she’d told Priya she wanted to gobble Lawrence like dessert, she’d been kidding. Or exaggerating. Now a real sort of frenzy, a bottomless hunger, took her over. She pulled the paint-splattered sweatshirt off, tossed it onto the chair that already held her coat. Lawrence held his hands out to her, and she flew back into his arms.

Get a hold of yourself. She was tall, but he was taller, and she rose to her tiptoes, clung to his neck to keep him close. His tongue grazed hers. Her fingertips dug into his shoulders, into the strongest muscles she’d ever felt, the power of them weakening her.

He’s worth more than a meaningless hookup or a few dates. He’s boyfriend material. This unwanted realization came crashing at her, a cold splash of water right to the face.

She backed away without warning. Broke from the circle of his arms. She combed her fingers through her hair to smooth the places where his fingers had tangled it. Wasn’t casual all she wanted? She could have the hookup now, but would she be able to keep her feelings under control?

A sentiment she’d never experienced flooded her, bigger than logical thought and hard to name. Surging, wanting. For an encounter that she had meant to be primarily physical, touching him stirred up a storm of emotion instead.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He held up his hands, palms out. “I don’t know what came over me, I didn’t mean to …”

She felt his absence everywhere, her arms without him, the emptiest they’d ever been. A hollowness in her chest. Yes, he’d been chipping away at her defenses, but now she was acting ready to tear down her own walls from the inside.

A terrifying feeling, a new feeling. The flint of desire striking something deeper into flame inside.

“No, no, it’s not you.” Ordinarily, this would be where she’d employ a flip remark to disguise her true feelings. Nothing came to her, Lawrence’s alarm increased, and he took a step away. “I’ve had the most incredible night. I’m scared to …”

Not only didn’t she have a coy comment, she didn’t have anything. Her mind was blank, grasping in fog for an answer just out of reach. What was happening? How had years of being taught to think a step ahead brought her to this pass? Always have an answer. Always make a strong impression. Be articulate.

“I’m scared—not of you.” Of course not of him, though she needed to repeat it to erase the concern etched across his face. She would never admit to being interested in a relationship on a first date. It scared her to even consider it. Especially not with someone she’d sworn to Priya and herself was only a hookup. She couldn’t say I’m afraid of how much you’ve charmed me tonight . If she gave those words voice, she couldn’t take them back. Too great a risk. “I don’t know what’s scaring me. I want to slow down.”

Again, he reached out his hands, not saying anything but somehow knowing what to do. He gave her a gentle embrace, kissed the top of her head. She heard his heart racing to match her own, slowed her breath to slow his. This hesitant contact might give her a chance to remember her own motives. To ground herself and decide if she still wanted to push ahead, closer to him.

He caught her chin in his hand, tipped her face up to look at him. His eyes compassionate, his tone soft, he said, “Come with me. I’ll show you around.”

Together they went through a swinging door into a small kitchen, a single overhead light on above the oven. Enough light to see by; hopefully not enough for him to notice the shame coloring her face.

“Every Sweet L’s cookie begins with the best ingredients I can source.” His tone soothed her and he stayed close, touched her hand lightly as he showed her around the kitchen. He pulled a large square canister from a wire shelving unit. With a practiced flip he popped off the lid. “Pure cane sugar.”

White crystals shimmered, shifted as he tipped the canister. He grabbed a plastic spoon from an adjacent shelf, dug out a small scoop. He held the spoon to her lips, eyes on hers. She opened her mouth, then the crystals lay on her tongue, gritty and impossibly sweet.

Sweet as you.

“This is grand cru chocolate from France.” He opened a second canister heaping with shiny chocolate disks. He shook out a disk for her, slipped it into her mouth. “Bitter and dark, the ideal contrast to a sweet base dough.”

The chocolate melted, coated her tongue with its complex, almost smoky flavor. The unrest roiling inside her began to calm. She focused her attention on his easy movements, on the way he seemed relaxed and fully in his element.

Her exhilarated but too-fast heartbeat began to slow as she followed him to a stainless-steel refrigerator, double the size of an ordinary household one. With a woosh, he pulled the door open. Bricks of butter formed a tower on the top shelf.

“Eighty-two-percent-fat butter. I won’t ask you to taste it, but get a look at that color.” He peeled back the corner of the inner paper wrapper on one of the blocks. A yellow she’d never seen on store-bought butter. A yellow she knew she wanted to remember for the next time she mixed her paints. All her senses thrummed; true calmness spread over her for the first time in ages.

“What you have here is very special,” she said.

He smiled, touched her cheek. He didn’t try to press home any old argument about how his bakery was better than hers. Instead, he seemed proud to show it off for itself, for the pleasure of its details, for the slow, wonderful sensation of beautiful things. For a kind of art she had never considered.

“I knew I’d get you with the chocolate.”

You’ve got me.

“There’s something I want to show you. Will you come with me?”