by Alina Jacobs
“Stir that,” she said, resting her palm on the underside of my forearm. Her hand was warm against my skin. I wanted to crush her to me.
I stirred while she finished cutting up the chicken strips then dipped them in a spicy batter. She was humming “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” as she worked.
“How's that oil looking?” she asked. “Hot enough?”
I peered around on the stove top. “I don't see it.”
She pointed. A few feet away from the stove was a container of oil sitting in the countertop.
“That's the garbage can,” I said, confused.
“Oh, sweet winter child, no,” Holly said with a laugh. “I'm about to blow your mind. And maybe you.” She muttered the last line under her breath.
“What?” I said, thinking I must have misheard.
“What? You have a deep fryer in your countertop. You're really living large here,” she said, shaking off the last strips of chicken.
“Aren't you supposed to separate those?” I asked in concern as she dropped the batter-drenched strips of chicken into the oil.
“It's better this way, trust me,” she said.
The smell of fried chicken brought the kids in.
“I just have to make a salad,” Holly told them.
They immediately jumped into action, tearing lettuce for the salad and slicing up the few vegetables I had in my fridge. They even made a vinaigrette.
“I'm very impressed,” Holly said, surveying them. “I always wanted a big family but thought it might be a little too chaotic. But if they can be trained to cook, eh, why not have ten?”
“Seriously, you want this many kids?” I asked her as the young Svensson brothers worked like little elves to set the table.
She thought for a moment as she mixed up chipotle aioli for the chicken tenders. “Maybe not this many.”
The condo had a huge farmhouse-style table that I usually just used to spread out my work. Now it sat all twenty-five of us. Holly was laying everything out buffet style on the kitchen island when the front door beeped, alerting me that someone had punched in the key code.
“Hey, we got here just in time for dinner!” Walker said gleefully, trotting into the open living and kitchen area.
“Hell no,” I argued. “You can't just leave your little brothers then show up when it's time to eat.”
“We have enough food,” Holly said, touching my arm. Several more Svenssons piled into my condo. “I think we have enough?”
27
Holly
The Svenssons waved goodbye to me as they ate the last of the leftover cookies.
When the last one was out the door, I slumped on the couch. We had barely had enough food. I felt terrible. I prided myself on feeding people and throwing amazing parties. What else did I have going for me?
“I demand a redo!” I told Owen as he poured two glasses of amber whisky.
“For what?” he asked, handing me a glass.
“It wasn't my best work,” I railed. “I didn't have time to plan. I was working in less-than-ideal conditions.”
“They ate it, and they liked it,” Owen said with a shrug and took a sip of his drink. “We didn't even have leftovers.”
“Exactly!” I said, jumping up and pacing around his living room. “That's the problem. If you don't have leftovers, you didn't make enough food. I am shamed!”
He laughed and reached out to stop me, his hand resting lightly on my waist. “You were perfect. Thank you.”
I wrinkled my nose. “I'll do better next time. We'll bring the Svenssons back, and I'll cook an insane feast.”
“Please spare me,” he said with a slight smile around his mouth. His hand was still on my waist. I really felt like he wanted to kiss me, but then sometimes I had gut feelings that turned out to be indigestion.
I stepped away, breaking the contact, and took another sip of the whisky.
“I really appreciate you coming by,” Owen told me.
“Next time, I'm making you some Christmas cookies,” I said stubbornly. “I know there's a recipe you'll love. It is my lifelong dream to see your eyes roll back in your head when you eat my cookies.”
That sounded dirty, Holly. He's going to think you're just like Amber.
“Guess I better go before I say anything else inappropriate!” I said with a too-loud laugh, hightailing it to the front door.
Owen caught up to me as I was staring at the door, trying to figure out how to open it. It had a fancy high-tech lock. He spun me around, large hands resting on my hips.
“Maybe I just need another taste of your cookies. I'll take it a little slower, really savor the flavors,” he murmured.
I looked up at his blue eyes. He was ridiculously tall. If this had been happening to anyone other than me, I would have said this was the start of a Christmas romance story for the ages.
Ha! Who was I kidding? The most I could hope for was a tumble under the Tannenbaum, then we'd go our separate ways. Like I said, modest dreamer—food, sex, a place to stash my baking gear, and Holly was good.
I stared up at him, willing him to kiss me.
But he stepped back instead. “Goodnight, Holly.”
“Did he frost your Christmas cookies?” Morticia asked when she saw me. She was sketching designs for the penthouse Christmas decorations in the living room.
“Unfortunately, no, he did not touch my Christmas cookies, baked or otherwise. Not that I have the wherewithal right now to try and fight off Amber for him,” I replied. But the thought of Amber sticking her claws into Owen really made me want to go all Holiday in Handcuffs on someone.
Even if Owen didn't like Christmas or Christmas cookies, he was still a good man. I knew what kind of girl Amber was—flaky, manipulative, destructive. I didn't want Owen in her crosshairs, even if he did hate Christmas cookies.
Down, brain. Think of your financial situation. I need solutions, not more problems. Owen is a grown man. He can handle himself.
My brain bashed me in the face with another image of Owen half naked, the bulge of his Christmas package visible in his boxer briefs.
Yes, I thought, grown male.
My phone buzzed. I had ten more new subscribers for the Taste My Muffin baking subscription box.
“Can you still help me bake?” I begged Morticia. “I have three hundred boxes to mail out.”
“Fine,” Morticia said, prowling around the kitchen. “However, we do not have enough flour. Or butter.”
“Guess we're going shopping!”
“Can you afford it?” she asked in a genuine display of concern.
I tamped down thoughts of losing all my grandmother’s Christmas decorations in the storage unit. The baking boxes were an investment toward saving them.
“Hey, my credit card debt needs more debt to keep it from feeling so lonely!”
We left earlyish the next morning for the store. My years of working in kitchens had put me on the “work until three a.m. and sleep until noon” schedule then rinse and repeat ad nauseum until you just randomly quit one day and start a failing baking subscription service then in a fit of delusion join a Christmas baking TV show that will magically make your problems go away.
Fiona rode down in the elevator with me.
“Thanks for coming with,” I told her.
“I love shopping! Plus I want to take pictures of the Christmas displays,” she said happily.
Morticia had a long black scarf wrapped around her neck, probably more to ward against the Christmas spirit than the cold. I peered at her.
“Do you have red glitter in your scarf?” I asked, pointing.
“I better not,” she hissed, clawing at the scarf. “It’s tinsel from your ridiculous sweater.”
I was wearing a fun sweater that I'd bought on impulse.
“This is a nice sweater!” I protested, looking down. The sweater depicted a corgi wearing a Santa Claus hat. His nose blinked red.
“It's cute, Morticia! I should buy you one!” I tease
d.
“You put that on me, you're losing a finger,” she threatened.
The specialty food store was crowded. Fiona grabbed a cart.
“What are you making? I'm sure you'll need butter,” she said, loading up the cart. “And cream.”
“I want to make Christmas rum-punch pound cake, hot cocoa brownies, and crème brûlée sugar cookies,” I said.
“So chocolate and more chocolate!” Fiona laughed.
Morticia dumped an armload of ingredients into the cart. “Here are more oranges,” she said. “And booze.”
“I don't think we need two bottles of rum.”
“One for us, one for the cake.”
Fiona and I looked at each other and nodded. “I'm okay with that.”
“Why am I not surprised?” A woman who looked exactly like the mean girl from any high school movie crossed her arms, leg jutting out in a model pose. She was well-dressed, but in New York City, if someone was talking to strangers, that meant either they were trying to sell something, or they were crazy. My default with dealing with crazy people in New York City was to purposefully and vigorously ignore them.
“I’m assuming you have no idea who I am,” she said as we all tried to move around her. “I'm Sloane.”
We all shrugged.
Sloane's nostrils flared at the slight. “I am currently the most important woman in Owen’s life. His company needs my company to vote for Quantum Cyber as the best place to work. He's going to do anything and everything I ask of him in order to win that prize.”
“Doubtful,” I said hotly. “I've been helping him, too, and I'm not trying to exploit him.”
I usually wasn't one to fight over a guy. I mean, come on, I did have some standards. But Sloane was really pissing me off. I was over there minding my own business, buying my weight in butter, and she just came over swinging her Christmas stocking around.
“Of course someone like you would think she had a chance with Owen.”
“Is all of this,” she gestured to the packed grocery cart, “for Owen, or are you all going to eat butter and sugar while watching movies?” She turned up her nose.
“What's with Owen and attracting crazy women?” I said out loud. “You're going to have to get in line, because my stepsister, Amber, also thinks she has a claim to him.”
“Is she another roly-poly baker like you?” Sloane said, smiling. It did not reach her eyes.
“Men like something to grab onto,” Fiona said hotly.
“She does have a lot, doesn't she,” Sloane sneered.
“Right, because she actually cares what some Upper West Side Becky has to say,” Morticia snapped.
“You'll see,” Sloane said with a smirk. “Don't even waste your time with Owen. He's mine.”
28
Owen
After the Svenssons had left the previous night, I’d prowled around the condo. All I could think about was Holly and how to make up an excuse to spend more time with her. My phone buzzed with texts from Sloane. I ignored them in favor of scrolling through Holly's Instagram. There was photo after photo of her striking fun, sexy poses in ridiculous, over-the-top outfits that usually featured a low-cut top and some sort of cinched waist that hiked her tits up.
I opened the windows at either end of the condo to bring in a frigid cross breeze. I was reaching a boiling point. Rudolph, worn out from chasing the Svensson kids around all evening, snoozed peacefully in the Christmas-themed bed Holly had purchased for him. It was a giant reindeer head, and the antlers flopped slightly in the breeze.
Though I had gotten a taste of the Christmas cookies she had brought over, I really wanted a taste of a different kind of cookie. I would have to settle for the sugar cookies, though. I'd reworked my computer program to give me the most likely combination of ingredients to make Christmas cookies like Holly's.
The first recipe looked, to my untrained eye, to be similar to what Holly had made in the bake-off: flour, sugar, butter. Should be easy. I creamed the butter until it was sort of smooth. I added the other ingredients, and the dough seemed fine. I rolled it out and cut out shapes. I didn't have a cookie cutter, so I freehanded it. This was just for a test.
While they baked, I made buttercream frosting.
“I mean honestly, how difficult could it be?” I said to the sleeping dog.
The fire alarm went off.
“Shit.” The cookies had spread across the cookie sheet, and some dough had dripped onto the bottom of the oven, where it was burning cheerfully.
“Fuck,” I yelled. I tossed the whole thing into the sink and turned on the water, making it sputter.
Cookie log: attempt one, I wrote. Failure.
On to attempt two.
The cookies were much more difficult than I had thought. I finally had to call it quits in the early hours of the morning. I did have an actual company to run.
“I need a better recipe,” I said to Rudolph when I took him outside. “Also, my buttercream sucks.” It was disgusting and somehow tasted both greasy and too sweet.
Rudolph was starting to become a problem. I kept him with me, but I needed a dog nanny or dog babysitter. I texted Walker as I rode the elevator.
Owen: Dog daycare. We should offer that at Quantum Cyber.
Walker: Sounds like a crazy idea… a crazy good one! Look at you being fun and hip.
Owen: It's not about hipness, it's for convenience. Plus Rudolph needs socialization.
Walker: Ha! You're such a dog dad now.
Owen: … No.
Walker: Absolute dog dad.
I left Rudolph with my secretary. She gave me a guilty look when I asked her to mind the dog for a few hours.
“Or not?” I asked with a frown.
“I might have let your father into your office,” she admitted. “He wanted to see you. He said it was an emergency.”
I sucked in a breath. I did not have the bandwidth to deal with my father this morning.
“You know my parents aren't supposed to be up here,” I reminded her.
“I'm so sorry. He's just…” she made a helpless gesture.
“Yeah, I know. He steamrolls himself wherever he wants to be.” I shook my head, bracing myself.
My father was sitting on my desk when I walked into the office.
“Owen, my golden child,” he boomed. We were the same height. He was a slightly older version of me and my brothers, with the same prematurely white hair. There I liked to think the similarities ended. My father was self-absorbed, had a massive ego, and looked down on anyone who didn't act how he wanted them to act. My whole childhood had been an obstacle course of trying to make him proud of me—until Belle left, when I just sort of stopped caring.
“You didn't have to come here,” I said, willing him to leave. “I’m sure you're needed at the hospital.”
“I have a spinal and brain surgery on a toddler to perform in an a few hours,” he said. “It’s the one from the robbery that was in the news. They're making a documentary about the child's road to recovery. I, of course, am an integral part of that.”
“You do save lives,” I said neutrally.
“The parents said they didn't want any other surgeon than myself. Of course, someone has to be the best,” he said smugly. “Not that you'd know anything about that, what with the fact that your company has not been anywhere near the top of the TechBiz list the last few years.”
There it was.
“You couldn't just send me a passive-aggressive email instead of coming to berate me in person?” I said, forcing myself to sound cold and bored. If my father sensed weakness, he pounced.
“I have faith in you, son,” my father said, clapping me on the shoulder. “You were always my favorite child. You're just like me. I know you'll be back on top in no time.”
I shrugged his hand off.
“Besides,” he continued, smiling conspiratorially, “I hear from your mother that Sloane is looking out for you. You made a good choice in her.”
“T
here is not and never will be anything between Sloane and me,” I replied.
But it was as if my father didn’t even hear me. “She told us when we had her over for dinner that she's looking to have a baby within a year after you two are married,” he barreled on.
“I am not marrying her.”
“Of course you are,” my father said incredulously. “Your mother and I like her very much. She'll make a great wife. Not like your brother Jack and that baker.”
“Chloe is a wonderful person and owns a very successful franchise,” I retorted. I could feel my blood start to boil.
Stay cold like ice, I chanted to myself. I forced myself to relax.
“Still,” he said. “She's nothing like Sloane, who is the perfect corporate wife. She and your mother went engagement ring shopping by the way, so expect information from her about Sloane's choices,” he called over his shoulder as he left.
I threw open the doors to the balcony after he left and stood outside, letting the cold numb me. No wonder Sloane wasn't taking the hint if my parents were egging her on and feeding her delusions. One thing was for certain: Sloane was not the type of woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.
The woman I wanted was messy, curvy, and baked like her life depended on it.
I just needed a way to make Holly mine.
29
Holly
The next day was spent decorating the penthouse. I tried to act happy for the cameras as Fiona and I wrapped garlands around the banister. After the common areas were decorated, I tackled the Taste My Muffin baking subscription boxes. I had hundreds to mail out, but it was difficult to concentrate.
I hated to admit it, but Sloane's words had cut. Owen had barely said anything to me. Yet here I was obsessing over him. I wasn't crazy like Amber, I assured myself. I just wanted to take a sleigh ride on him. Naked. And maybe smear him with frosting and lick it off those washboard abs and see just how big his Christmas package really was.
