Tasting Her Christmas Cookies: A Holiday Romantic Comedy

by Alina Jacobs

  I was definitely an asshole, and an oblivious one at that.

  “I’m going to fix it,” I said firmly.

  “You better,” Belle said, “because I'm not eating anything you cook.”

  After she left, I went through my condo, collecting all my belongings to take upstairs. I found the dress and cape I had bought for Holly. They still smelled like her, all sugar and spice. I half didn't want to leave this condo. Holly had been here with me. But I hauled all my stuff upstairs.

  My penthouse had been freshly cleaned. The cleaner had even left all the windows open, just the way I liked it. It was freezing inside. I opened the fridge, hoping to find some of Holly's cookies. But the cleaner had removed any food.

  I went upstairs to the master suite, where Holly had lived for a month, and lay down on the mattress.

  The next morning, Holly still hadn't responded to any of my attempts to contact her. I dressed and went down to my office. I needed the distraction of work.

  I was reading through some of the employee comments that TechBiz magazine had picked out to provide to each company. Several asked for a café in the tower. There was a fine-dining restaurant attached to the hotel, but the employees didn’t like it, and they weren't shy about complaining.

  I took a deep breath and called Svensson Investment. They managed the ground-floor retail space in the tower.

  “You want a what?” Greg said in a clipped tone. “A restaurant? There's no street-frontage retail spots left.”

  “It doesn’t need it. Word of mouth will generate traffic to the establishment, and my employees will use it. They've been begging for a fast casual restaurant in the tower. I think we might be able to carve part of the lobby space out for a café.”

  “Is this for Holly?” he asked.

  “She helped win us the contest,” I countered.

  “I highly doubt that.” I could hear the annoyance in Greg's voice.

  In the background, Hunter said, “You can’t just put a permanent restaurant in the middle of a lobby. Would the city building department even allow it?”

  “They do it in France,” I said into the phone.

  “No.”

  Time to use my trump card. “If it's not built in the Quantum Cyber tower, the Holbrooks are going to build her a restaurant in their tower.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath from the other end of the line, followed by frantic whispering.

  “We will invest one million dollars to build her a café,” Greg said. “But you need to put up the other half.”

  “I don’t need the money, I just need you to do the legal work to carve up the space, but sure, deal.”

  I looked up architects after the call. I wanted Holly to have the perfect restaurant. Surely this was what she wanted, right? She had that subscription baking company. She was entrepreneurial.

  “Owen.”

  Crap. Sloane. I had left my secretary strict instructions not to allow Sloane into my office. Unfortunately, my secretary was already out for Christmas break.

  “Can I help you?” I asked firmly.

  “Of course,” she said, sauntering over to me. Her blouse was unbuttoned several buttons too many, her cleavage pushed up.

  “We had a deal, Owen.”

  “We didn't have a deal.”

  “Yes, we did!” She pouted. “I gave you the contest, and you give me everything I want!”

  I threw my head back and laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation. “I'm not marrying you,” I retorted.

  “I don't need marriage,” Sloane said, unbuttoning another button. “Maybe just a little early Christmas present.” She pulled my face down into her cleavage. “I just want my reward for helping you.”

  I tried to scramble up, but she kissed me.

  There was an explosion of glitter. As it cleared, it revealed Holly's angry face.

  71

  Holly

  I woke up the next morning half on the floor, chocolate frosting in my hair. The TV was still blaring holiday movies. Several elves were running around on the screen in a panic. The counter in the corner said two more days until Christmas. I started as a key turned in the door.

  “I ordered us croissan’wiches,” Morticia said as she set the borrowed keys in the little dish on the bookcase. “Though, mainly I bought them for you. You have a gallon of wine in your stomach.”

  I checked my phone as I ate the croissant. There were several texts from Owen. One was Rudolph dressed up as a snowman. Another asked if I was going to come to the holiday party he was apparently hosting on Christmas Eve.

  Owen: Please don't move to Paris. I'll miss your cookies.

  There was another text from Amber with the pictures of Owen kissing Sloane.

  Morticia peered over my shoulder. “Is that—”

  “I think she ambushed him.”

  “She seems to be doing that a lot,” Morticia said, her eyes narrowing dangerously.

  “It's not his fault!” I protested. “Sloane is crazy.”

  “He's a billionaire,” Morticia said flatly. “He could have nipped that in the bud a while ago.”

  “I can't believe you're agreeing with Amber,” I said.

  Standing up and balling the empty wrapper, Morticia sighed. “You're my friend, and I don't want to see you get hurt. Also, I have a baseball bat in case he screws up.”

  “I appreciate that,” I said, rolling my eyes, “but I'm not taking a baseball bat to Owen.”

  “Missed opportunity.”

  “I'm going to see him,” I insisted, throwing away my trash. “We'll have an adult conversation. I still have his credit card anyway; I should give that back.”

  “You're going like that? You have frosting in your hair, and you smell like a bar.”

  I hopped out of the Uber in front of Owen's tower. I felt much better after a shower and some coffee. It was almost Christmas! I was wearing a sweater with holiday corgis on it. Owen had wanted me to help him with a holiday party, and there was nothing better than throwing a party!

  Owen's office was mostly empty. A temp worker filling in for the receptionist was sitting at the front desk, sipping tea out of a giant mug shaped like a penguin and watching holiday movies.

  “Just go on up,” she said when I asked about Owen. “His secretary isn't there. She went back to Texas.”

  When I arrived on Owen's floor, I snuck up to his door. I wanted to surprise him, but I was the one who got the nasty surprise.

  Owen was in his office, alone, with Sloane. She smiled and said something, then Owen tipped his head back and laughed.

  I held my breath, not daring to believe what I was seeing. Surely there was a logical explanation for all of this, right? Then she leaned forward, grabbed him, and pulled him into a passionate kiss. I wanted to turn tail and run. But I would regret it forever if I didn't make some kind of scene.

  I picked up one of the decorative pine cones I'd put on the secretary's desk. It was practically shellacked in glitter. And it was flaking. I flung the door to Owen's office open and chucked the giant pine cone at the two of them. It hit Sloane square in the shoulder. Sloane shrieked as she and Owen were covered in a puff of glitter.

  “You lunatic!” she spat, trying to dust herself off. “This was a very expensive blouse!”

  I was pretty proud of myself for the shot. All that whipping cream by hand had given me some muscle under the liquefied sugar.

  “Holly,” Owen said, “this isn't what it looks like.”

  “Really?” I said “What is it then?”

  Sloane smirked. “He's giving me the payment for winning the TechBiz competition.”

  I tried to keep the despair off my face.

  Sloane was triumphant. “You honestly didn't think your stupid little parties were what won him the contest, did you?”

  “That's all I need to hear then,” I said, fumbling in my purse to throw the credit card at him. “I hope your Christmas sucks, Owen Frost.”

  72

  Owen


  “Get out of my office,” I ordered Sloane.

  “But we're made for each other, Owen,” she said, flinging herself at me.

  I tried to pull her off; it was difficult, as she had her nails sunk into my suit jacket.

  “It's better this way,” Sloane insisted. “You had your fun with the baker, but now it's time to settle down.”

  I finally disentangled myself from her. I was furious. “When I come back, you better be gone,” I warned. Then I ran after Holly. She was walking quickly through the lobby to the front door when I caught up with her.

  “Holly, stop!”

  She whirled around. “I don't get you,” she said. “Like what the hell?”

  “Sloane just surprised me,” I insisted.

  “Yeah, she seems to be doing a lot of that,” Holly said, eyes narrowing.

  “Why can't you just accept that I'm telling the truth?” I snarled at her. “I did all those nice things for you.”

  “You mean like buying me expensive jewelry and outfits and paying me to throw parties that apparently you didn't need. Oh, wait, I forgot, there's totally nothing going on between you and the person who is handing out the prizes.”

  We glared at each other.

  “See, this is why I hate Christmas,” I declared. “People get overly emotional.”

  “I'm not emotional!” Holly screeched.

  “I didn't say you were,” I yelled. Then I clenched my jaw shut. I sounded like my father. I did not want to be anything like my father.

  “I need to go,” I said. Before I say something I really regret.

  I left Holly standing there hurt, surrounded by the Christmas decorations. It felt cruel. I knew it was.

  Cold, dispassionate.

  I needed to calm down. Then I would figure things out with Holly.

  “Did Sloane leave?” I asked the temp receptionist when I went back up to my office.

  “Stormed out of here,” she replied.

  “Please don’t let her back in.”

  Rudolph had found my credit card and was chewing it when I went back into my office.

  “I need this,” I told him, tugging the drooly card out of his mouth. “Apparently I need to plan a holiday party.”

  Belle had been right. I shouldn't have just expected Holly to do it, just like I shouldn’t have assumed that she would want to stay here and open a restaurant in the lobby of my tower. There wouldn’t even be a window. Paris would be nicer, of course. Maybe I could go visit her if I hadn’t screwed up too badly.

  Rudolph pawed at my legs, and I scratched his head and took out my phone.

  Owen: How many people are coming for the Christmas party tomorrow?

  Jack: You’re just now trying to figure this out?

  Jack: Also doesn’t Holly know what’s going on?

  Owen: I think she’s done with me.

  Jack: … Dude

  I searched the internet. If my secretary has been here, I would have asked her to help me find a place to cater at the last minute. Surely that wouldn’t be impossible? I called a place that said they did high-end parties.

  “You need what?” the owner asked incredulously when I called. “We’ve been booked for the twenty-fourth for months.”

  It was the same at the other places. I was screwed in more ways than one. I’d fucked up with Holly, and now I had screwed up the Christmas party I didn’t even want.

  Owen: None of these places cater. I think I need to cook a turkey. Could your brother Remy give me a crash course on how to use a smoker?

  Walker: Lol you’re going to cook? I can’t believe Holly didn’t give you an easier dish to make.

  Owen: Why does everyone assume she’s doing all the cooking?

  Walker: Please don’t tell me you screwed up. I was going to put in a special request for that wedding cake she made.

  Owen: You already ate the whole thing?

  Walker: You know the holidays stress me out.

  Walker: Hey you know what I’ll bring a shit ton of beer and potato chips. Everyone will be so drunk it will kill the food poisoning you give them when you fuck up that turkey.

  I went back to praying I could find a place to cater the party but was interrupted by my phone ringing. It was Greg Svensson.

  “I was just informed that you screwed up the restaurant,” Greg said.

  “I didn’t screw anything up,” I said icily.

  “That’s not what Walker said,” Greg retorted. “I can't believe you. I already rubbed it in Grant Holbrook’s face. I saw him at Cameli’s. I can’t have this coming back to me.”

  “You know I can’t stand the Holbrooks after what they did to us,” his brother Hunter said into the speaker. “I better not see Holly opening up shop in the Holbrook Enterprises tower. Has she confirmed with you on running the restaurant in the Quantum Cyber tower?”

  “I don't know,” I said brusquely.

  “You don't know? Owen. This has to happen. I can't look bad,” Greg insisted.

  “Why does everyone get so petty and emotional around Christmas?” I complained.

  “Because it’s a terrible holiday.”

  I hung up. I had several problems to solve. The main one was Holly. I tried calling her again. No answer. I looked around my office; I needed a grand gesture. But I didn’t even know where she lived. I bet I knew who would, though.

  I scrolled through my phone until I found the number. I hated to do this—it felt like making a deal with the devil.

  Owen: I need to ask you for a favor.

  Garrett: No.

  Owen: It’s not a big favor. I need to know where Holly is.

  My phone rang.

  Garrett’s voice was annoyed. “You lost Holly?”

  “I didn’t lose her.”

  “You better not have!” Penny yelled at the phone. “I have months’ worth of Vanity Rag content for the New Year planned around her!”

  “Just tell me where she is, and I’ll fix it,” I insisted.

  “I don’t know,” Penny said. “I have to ask her first.”

  After ending the call, I paced around the office. I felt crazed and angry.

  I was even sympathizing with Hunter Svensson, who always seemed to be some flavor of miserable and angry. Walker had filled me in on what had happened between him and Meghan. Now that I was in the throes of losing the love of my life, I realized how agonizing it was.

  But unlike Hunter, I wasn't giving up without a fight—or, more accurately, a groveling apology. Christmas was going to be miserable enough, but Christmas without Holly? Intolerable.

  I couldn’t stand being cooped up anymore. I grabbed my keys and went down to the garage, Rudolph in tow. Driving would help clear my mind while I waited for Penny's response.

  When I pushed through the door into the garage where all my cars were parked, something whizzed past my head and splatted on the floor. Rudolph pounced. I looked down to see him take a big bite of something red, green, and white.

  “Is that a cupcake?”

  73

  Holly

  “Screw Owen!” I shouted when I flung open the door to Fiona's apartment. She and Morticia stopped their heated argument about whether The Nightmare Before Christmas was a Christmas movie or a Halloween movie.

  “Owen is a Christmas-hating, cold-hearted bastard. I can’t believe I wasted my whole December with him!” I sank down onto the couch. Fiona poured me a shot. I downed the whole thing.

  “Was it Sloane?” Morticia asked.

  “It was everything—the lying, the manipulation, the fact that he’s so closed off. Most of all is the fact that he hates Christmas! I thought I could make him love it, but I think he was just tolerating it because, I don’t know, he wanted to sleep with me, I guess. I was used. I mean, it felt really good,” I said, remembering being with him, “but still. I have to have standards. He literally ruined Christmas for me!”

  “Then we need to ruin it for him,” Fiona insisted.

  “How? He doesn’t lik
e Christmas.”

  “Everyone has something they love,” Morticia said, face a little scary in her dark makeup.

  “I’m not going after his family or his dog,” I added.

  “Billionaires are like Ebenezer Scrooge. They have weird emotional attachments to money and nice things. Does he have golf clubs you could throw in the Hudson River? Tacky bronze replicas of himself?”

  “No,” I said, “but he does have all his cars.”

  “Perfect,” Morticia said, handing me a baseball bat.

  “I’m not going to smash his cars!” I said, horrified, shoving it back at her. “They're expensive, and the only thing worse than spending Christmas in the company of all my debt collectors would be spending it in jail.”

  “You can’t just let him off scot-free. At least make your exit a memorable one,” Fiona said, pouring all of us another round of shots.

  While it was fun to think about getting revenge, I would never actually go through with it, I promised myself as I downed another shot.

  “God, this vodka is disgusting.”

  “I won it in a raffle last year,” Fiona said. “It’s eggnog flavored.”

  “It’s nasty,” I said as she poured me another.

  “How about we do a little cake decorating,” Fiona said.

  “Now?”

  “Yes. We’ll throw frosting and smear cake, chocolate sauce, marshmallows, and sprinkles all over his cars. Nothing a little carwash can't fix. Harmless fun and petty revenge!” she said.

  “You know what?” I said, standing up and pouring myself another shot. “Turn on the oven. Let’s bake!”

  “You don’t have to make it perfect,” Morticia complained as Fiona carefully measured out flour. “No one's eating it.”

  “But I’ll know if it’s not good!” she wailed.

  The mixer whirred as I made royal icing. Fiona carefully spooned the batter into cupcake tins.