by Alina Jacobs
“You sure you want to do that?” Morticia asked.
I yelped. Had all that tarot reading and making offerings to spirits given her the ability to read minds?
“Honestly, it wasn't that dirty.”
“You're being weird,” Morticia said, “and you're also about to pour a cup of salt into that cake batter.”
“Crap,” I said, hastily stepping back.
The rest of the baking took me a lot longer than it should have. I accidentally tipped half a bottle of vanilla into my cookie batter and had to start over. Morticia finally kicked me out of the kitchen.
“I'll finish this. You're going to send me to an early grave,” she said, taking the spatula out of my hand. “You're distracted. I told you I cannot be trapped here the rest of December with the Christmas bake-off idiots. If you get kicked off because you're dreaming about some billionaire who can't even work an oven instead of coming up with an award-winning dessert, I'm not helping you bake a single thing ever again.”
She handed me a plate of hot chocolate brownies. They had homemade marshmallows on top.
“Go stuff a brownie in his mouth and then stuff his candy cane in your Christmas stocking and get your head in the game,” she ordered, practically shoving me out the door then slamming it behind me.
The faint strains of Mozart's funeral requiem filtered through the shut door.
I sighed. Should I really go see Owen? I could just eat all these brownies by myself.
Maybe I'll take him one, I thought as I swiped my key card to go down a floor. The elevator let me off at the private lobby to his condo.
“Here we go!” I said, trying to hype myself up. Coming over to make dinner for starving children was one thing. That had been an innocent pretense to spend time with him. Now it was evening; I was dressed in the semirevealing outfit I’d worn while making baking videos. I had a plate of brownies. It was clear I was there for one thing.
“We're going to jump down the chimney,” I chanted to myself. I bounced up and down, raised my hand to knock… then immediately turned around and headed to the elevator.
“Nope, not happening.”
I had already swiped my key card when the fire alarm went off inside the condo. There was cursing, and a dog yelped.
What in the world? I banged on the door. “Owen! Owen!”
Heavy footsteps approached the door and it swung open. The fire alarm blared, strobe light flashing. I squinted at Owen, who stood in front of me, holding a sheet of very burnt cookies.
“You're making cookies?” I exclaimed in shock and horror.
Owen grimaced. His normally perfectly controlled demeanor was askew. He had batter on his cheek. His platinum hair hung in his face, and his shirt was rumpled, with the sleeves rolled up and several buttons undone.
“I, uh—I don't have to explain myself to you!” he shouted back over the blaring siren.
I pushed past him, set the brownies on the counter, and fanned the fire alarm.
Rudolph was barking, all four feet leaving the ground with every yelp.
“Shhh,” I told the husky puppy. “Honestly, Owen, are you trying to burn this tower down? I could have come and baked you cookies if you'd just asked.”
“I have it under control,” he said in a clipped tone, dumping the pan and all the cookies into the trash can. I snatched the oven mitt from him and pulled the pan out.
“You're going to be sorry when it melts the plastic,” I told him, putting it in the sink. “What were you trying to do?”
Owen shrugged helplessly.
I narrowed my eyes at him, trying not to smile. “It was my sugar cookies, wasn't it?”
“No,” he said mulishly.
“Yes, it is!” I crowed. “I knew it! I knew you wanted my cookies. Admit it!” I sang, dancing around him. “My Christmas cookies are life changing.”
He grabbed me suddenly, pressing me against his body for a brief moment. His teeth caught his lower lip. He grinned slightly then released me.
“Are you hot? Because I'm really warm. I think we need to open a few more windows in here,” I squeaked. I hustled over to the French doors out to the balcony, throwing them open to let the winter air inside.
Owen watched me from across the room. Why was I acting so weird? I had actually come up here to tempt him with a very Merry Christmas after all.
“I thought I could make the cookies,” Owen admitted after a moment. “I had a computer program and everything.” He gestured to his laptop.
I peered at the recipe on the screen. “Good gracious! I'm not surprised the cookies burned with the amount of sugar you're using.”
Owen scowled at the computer and muttered, “Worthless program.”
“If you wanted my Christmas cookies,” I said with a wink, “you should have just asked. I'd be happy to give you a taste!”
“I'll file that away for later,” he said, that deep voice wrapping around me.
“Or we could do it now,” I offered, not sure which type of cookies I was offering.
Owen closed the distance between us. “You're going to give me a taste of your Christmas cookies?” he asked, eyes dark. We were inches apart. His hands came up to rest on my waist.
“I mean, if you really want them,” I said and swallowed.
“I do.”
Owen was so freaking intense; I'd never been with any man like him. The guys I normally dated were some flavor of hipster with interchangeable man buns working on their new song, failing nonprofit, or great American novel.
Yet here was Owen. He was the CEO of his own company, possessed more real estate than I would even know what to do with, and had a body that looked like someone had chiseled it out of ice.
It was suddenly a little too much.
I pulled away and clapped my hands. “Cookie time! I'm going to teach you how to bake!”
Owen growled slightly in the back of his throat but followed me around the kitchen. I opened the fridge. It was stuffed with butter and cream.
“Oh my goodness, either you're going overboard on the Bulletproof coffee or you're planning on making enough cookies to feed your entire office.”
“I wanted enough to run experiments.”
“Uh-huh, well, let Holly show you how it's done,” I said, and started creaming the butter and sugar in the stand mixer.
“You don't need a recipe?” Owen asked. He was standing right behind me, his breath slightly cool on my neck.
“Please. I could make these cookies in my sleep.” I snorted, measuring out the flour. I had Owen crack an egg in a bowl and whisk it up with the vanilla. Then I mixed it in with the dry ingredients.
“Perfect!” I said, taking a pinch of cookie dough and eating it.
“That has raw eggs in it,” Owen protested.
“It's from farm-raised, free-range chickens,” I countered. I took another pinch and held it out to him.
“Eat it!”
Owen grabbed my hand and carefully licked the dough off. The feel of his tongue on my fingertips kicked off a rousing round of Christmas carols in my hoo-ha.
“Is it tasty?” I squeaked.
“Very good,” he said against my hand. He pressed his lips to my fingertips then released me.
“So I'll just put this in the fridge. It needs to cool down.”
And so do I!
Wait, what was I thinking, trying to bang one of The Great Christmas Bake-Off judges? I was about to default on my student loans. The storage unit with all my grandmother’s beloved Christmas decorations was about to be auctioned off because I couldn't pay the bill. And here I was jeopardizing my only shot to fix everything.
But Owen looked so delicious standing there, and I had never been the most rational person. Exhibit A being quitting my job and starting that ill-advised baking subscription box company.
“So what do we do to pass the time while we wait?” The look on Owen's face said he had one and only one idea in mind.
“Buttercream frosting,” I practic
ally shouted and dumped the ingredients on the counter.
“Because you want some frosting on your cookies?” Owen said, slow smile spreading on his face.
“Well, when you put it like that, it sounds dirty. Christmas cookies are supposed to be wholesome,” I said, measuring out powdered sugar.
“Are they?” he said in his deep voice. “Because there's that whole naughty-nice dichotomy with Christmas.”
“I've been very nice this year,” I said primly. “And I expect Santa to bring me a very nice Christmas package all wrapped up in a bow.”
“I'm sure I can put a bow on my package if that's all it takes to convince you to put your hands on it.”
I switched on the electric mixer, hoping it would drown out the slight moan that escaped my lips when I thought about Owen's Christmas package.
When the frosting was done, I slowly licked a spoonful of it. Owen followed the motion with his eyes.
“It's very tasty buttercream,” I told him. “I would lick it off of literally anything.”
30
Owen
“If you want my tongue on your whole body, then you can cover yourself in frosting,” Holly added, scooping up another dollop of frosting and sticking her finger in her mouth.
Erotic was the only word for it. Before I knew what was happening, I had taken two steps across the kitchen and grabbed her hips, my hands pressing against her, feeling the softness of her curves through the skirt. Holly arched up against me in surprise, her chest heaving in the laced-up bodice.
She blinked up at me. My hands drifted up the curve of her back, one hand tangling in the tousled brown curls, the other cupping her face.
“I think the cookie dough is cold enough now,” Holly said slightly breathlessly. “I should start rolling it out. Otherwise we'll be here all night.”
That was perfectly fine with me, but I stepped back and let her take the dough out of the fridge.
“I have cookie cutters,” I offered when she'd rolled out the dough. I'd thought about taking notes, but I could really only concentrate on Holly—the way she moved, the graceful way she smoothed out the dough. The intensity of her expression as she baked almost reminded me of me, of how I could be so absorbed in a programming problem.
I loved the way she bit her lower lip as she decided on the best way to cut out the cookies. After pressing the cookie cutters into the dough, she carefully stripped away the excess and slid the parchment paper onto the cookie sheet and put it in the oven. The puff of air as she closed the oven sent the skirt rustling up, exposing a hint of creamy inner thigh.
Get it together.
“Now we wait,” she said.
I knew how I wanted to spend the time. Holly was watching the cookies through the glass of the oven. I wrapped my arms around her and nuzzled her neck. She squeaked then laughed.
“I hope you're not trying to distract me,” she joked. “If I burn those cookies, I'll never be able to live it down.”
I wanted to pick her up and carry her to my bedroom; the cookies could just burn. But I also wanted to savor this, to unwrap her like an exquisitely decorated package.
She moaned slightly as my hands drifted up to cup the swell of her breasts. I kissed her neck, moving up to nip her earlobe. I spun her around to face me, fully intending to claim her mouth like I intended to claim her body.
But there was a slight hesitation in the way she chewed on her bottom lip. All I wanted to do was kiss that mouth myself. But I didn't want any reluctance on her part. I only wanted unbridled desire.
“I think the cookies are about done,” Holly said, turning away from me and breaking the tension. “So now that you love Christmas cookies,” she continued, taking the sheet out of the oven, “I need to help you bring Christmas to the rest of your life.”
“You already have my dog bedazzled in Christmas cheer,” I replied as Holly used a metal spatula to place the cookies on a cooling rack and took them outside.
“I’m going to decorate your house. Oh, I should have ordered you a Christmas tree!”
“I don't need a Christmas tree.”
“You do! Christmas trees show your employees that you aren't some sort of modern-day Ebenezer Scrooge, counting pennies and keeping the heat off.”
“Nothing wrong with the cold. It's good for your circulation.”
“You need to have a big holiday extravaganza for your employees,” she insisted.
“Like a black-tie Christmas party?” I asked, confused.
“Too formal. I'm thinking more like a casual holiday party.”
I was skeptical.
“It will be fun! Booze, a holiday party, and a self-deprecating CEO will make your employees all love you and the company. I'll decorate, your employees can take nice photos, and you can reap those sweet, sweet social media points.”
I had wanted to spend more time with Holly. Maybe this was the way to do it.
“Fine.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Plan my holiday party.”
“This is going to be the best Christmas you've ever had!” she promised, nudging me with her shoulder and heading out onto the large balcony. She picked up a cookie and inspected it.
“These are ready to frost. Heh, get it?”
Though I wanted to really give her some Owen Frost on her cookies, Holly was all business as she decorated, expertly twirling the knife to frost the cookies and sprinkling them with a glitter of sugar.
“Taste,” she ordered. Holding a small star up to my mouth, she slid the cookie inside. My tongue flicked against her fingertips, and she shivered.
“Delicious,” I said, locking eyes with her.
“And now you can make cookies.”
“Correction. Now I can watch you make cookies. I still don't think I'd be able to replicate it.”
“Don't worry! You can call me whenever you have a craving for something sweet.”
“I have one now,” I said, pressing against her, letting her feel the hardness of my length. “I want you,” I breathed against her mouth.
“I, um—” She pushed away. “I think maybe we should probably keep this professional, you know, since you’re a judge and I'm a contestant. It might just be better if we didn't do this.”
What the—
“Enjoy the cookies!” she called out as she practically ran out the front door.
“Fuck,” I said, staring around at the empty condo.
I absently cleaned up, the cookies taunting me.
How did I seriously fuck that up?
31
Holly
The next day, I was in a daze. We went shopping, and I mailed my subscription boxes. But all I could think about was Owen.
“So you seriously didn't unwrap any packages or let him put his hand in your stocking or any other sexual Christmas innuendos?” Fiona whispered as we stood in the studio space for another morning of baking.
I shook my head. “I chickened out.”
“Did you see it? Was it huge?”
“I don't know!” I groaned.
“I bet it was huge,” Fiona said matter-of-factly. “I mean, it has to be, right?”
“Don't make me feel worse,” I said, smoothing my skirt and trying not to look at Owen as he sat down at the judges’ table. He stared straight at me, as if he could eat me right up. I fidgeted with my necklace as Dana signaled to Anastasia.
“From White Christmas to Miracle on 34th Street, the 1950s cemented our current image of Christmas as a lavish, joyous occasion. Fresh off of winning World War II with all the handsome GIs returning and wanting to start families and create picture-perfect moments, the fifties embodied the excess and extravagance of Christmas. They had new gadgets and canned food. The fifties housewife was willing to experiment to make her Christmas more festive than anyone else's in the Junior League. Today, our contestants are going to be creating desserts that evoke the 1950s aesthetic. Contestants, you have until this afternoon. Let's bake!”
I had worn my
1950s outfit with the corseted waist and the flared skirt with a mountain of petticoats that ended right at my ankles to reveal my cute red-and-green heels. The bodice had off-the-shoulder chiffon, and I wore a fake pearl necklace. I'd even managed to wake up early and convince Morticia to help me curl my hair so it hung around my face in a perfect fifties coif.
I went into the pantry and looked around. The fifties had been a time of great change, both in the world at large and in the world of food. Jell-O, canned food, boxed desserts—the decade had been all about novelty. However, food choices had also tended to be rather bland. Deviled eggs with a dash of paprika was about as crazy as the average housewife wanted to get with her flavors.
Since the fifties had also been the atomic age and people had given home chemistry sets to their children for Christmas that included, among other things, radioactive uranium ore, I decided to go retro atomic for my theme, and that meant molecular gastronomy. The whole point of this food movement was to use chemicals and processes to transform the physical properties of ingredients while leaving the essence of flavor.
I couldn't have a fifties Christmas dessert without Jell-O, and that was what I decided to build my dish around. Not Jell-O exactly but a nice custard. And unlike the fifties, I was also going to turn up the volume on flavor—way up.
“You looked dressed for the part,” Anastasia said as I laid out all the tools I needed. “Are you about to conduct an experiment?”
“A tasty experiment!” I said with a laugh. “Those avant-garde desserts you see on Instagram tend to have a lot of components arranged on a dish. You have to include several sauces, little crumbles, and small single tasty bites.”
“I can't wait to see it,” she said, moving on to talk to Fiona.
Along with the eggnog custard, I was going to make a baked Alaska truffle, since that was a dish fifties housewives used to slave over to make perfect for their dinner parties. I was also including a tart, fruity molded gelatin. I couldn't resist. There was something about Jell-O that was whimsical. However, I was going to make one that was tasty.