by Shyla Colt
Table of Contents
Chapter One | Alfajores
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four | S’Mores
Chapter Five
Epilogue
About the Author
Excerpt | All I want for Christmas Is Yoon | Prologue
Connect with me
Chapter One
Alfajores
1 1/2 cups (200g) all-purpose flour
2 1/8 cups (300g) cornstarch
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1 and 3/4 sticks (200g) unsalted butter, at room temperature
3/4 cup (150g) granulated sugar or 1 1/4 cups (150g) powdered sugar
3 large egg yolks
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
350 g (12 oz.) dulce de leche, for filling
1/2 cup unsweetened shredded or desiccated coconut, for rolling
MATILDA
Who knew a chocolate chip cookie could turn into a coal briquette? I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders as smoke continues to billow out of the open windows and front door. Heat fills my cheeks as the fire truck pulls up, lights flashing, and the siren blaring. I wish I could sink down into the two feet of snow I’m standing in beside my nosy neighbor, Gladys. Gladys called the fire department as I waved the smoke outside, even when I insisted it wasn’t necessary. Of course it was then the cookies ignited, ending my protests.
The hulking heroes scramble down from the shiny, red emergency vehicle, and I point lamely inside. “Oven.”
Doors open, and others drift out onto their porch. I close my eyes and place a hand over my eyes. This was not supposed to be the New Year’s Eve entertainment. Thank God Clem is spending this holiday with her father. It was her big, brown eyes that landed me into this mess in the first place. I can still hear her sweet, “Mommy, this year, can we please sign up for the annual bake sale?”
How could I say no when it was our first Christmas on our own?
I made it a game, telling her I would practice while she was gone, so we could choose our favorite recipes together. I’d succeed in making us homeless before that happened. Did the oven malfunction? I’ve never heard of this happening to anyone else. Of course, when it comes to baking, I’m able to defy reality. In our tiny town, the news will be out by Monday on how that poor, divorced girl nearly burned down her house her first year living alone.
“What happened, dear? Did the loneliness get to you?” Gladys asks.
Her boldness loosens my tongue. “Excuse me?”
“It was such a shame, really. That nice husband of yours leaving and showing up too soon after, if you don’t mind me saying, with that little, blonde girl half his age.”
Grinding my teeth, I remember it’ll get back to my mother if I make this woman cry here in front of the rest of the neighborhood and the fire department.
I’ve been dragged through the proverbial mud in the gossip circles. I’m not shocked about what’s said, just that Gladys is telling me to my face. She’s got a set of steel lady balls. High school sweethearts who were Prom King and Queen senior year, Jackson and I were under heavy scrutiny. People had been waiting for us to fail since the ninth grade. When we both made it through college, sans a baby, got married, and started our respective careers in sales and the computer science world, the vultures stopped circling overhead. Especially when Clementine was born six years ago.
If I were the lying sort, I’d say the divorce blindsided me. I’m not. I like facts, codes, and equations. Once you learn the rules, the result is always the same. It’s why I excel in the computer science field. Parting ways brought intense relief. Jackson and I ran out of things to talk about years ago. Our interests no longer aligned, and over sixty percent of the reasons we stayed together had to do with our daughter.
That’s the danger of marrying young. You might grow up and discover the adult version of you doesn’t want the same things. Untangling our lives was a long, painful nightmare. He had a starring role in every poignant memory I made for the past fourteen years. On my own, I got a chance to explore my personal likes, choose a home, decorate, and have no one but myself to answer to. It’s been a profound journey to self-love and independence.
I lost myself over the years playing the perfect wife and mother to Jackson and his image. Taking over his father’s car dealership, he forced us to remain in the limelight with ads, videos, and a social media presence. His scheming and impossible standards allowed no room to breathe or look anything less than perfect at any given moment. I will never go down that road again. Life under the radar in comfortable clothes, indulging my interests stretched out before me like the prize at the end of a long-distance race. There’s a powerful freedom in being able to let it all hang out.
Neon green and yellow reflective tape flash in the flashing red lights, standing out against his black uniform as the firefighter comes toward me with his helmet tucked under his arm. He looks no worse for wear, and they never pulled out the hose, so maybe my kitchen hadn’t burned down. Thank God for home owner’s insurance and the fact that I live less than a minute from the station. His crew exits behind him.
“Ma’am?”
“Lawson. Mrs. Lawson.” I step away from Gladys.
The dark-haired man nods. “Okay. Mrs. Lawson, we’ve put out the small fire. I don’t believe there was any serious damage, but you’ll have to call out a repairman to inspect the oven before using it. You’re lucky it wasn’t a gas stove.”
I nod my head as I picture my house going up with a boom as a blazing fireball engulfs it.
“Is my kitchen salvageable?” I swallow around the lump forming in my throat.
“Oh, yes, ma’am. The smell of smoke will linger, and you’ll have to scrub everything down and maybe put on a few coats of fresh paint.”
“Can you tell me what happened? Did my oven malfunction?” I’m eager to pass the buck on this situation. I swear you can hear a pin drop as he clears his throat and looks away. Shit. It was a user error.
“It looks like the broiler was on.”
My jaw drops. “Are you kidding me?” My shrill voice rings out.
“No, ma’am. That’s the only thing we could find wrong.” His sympathetic expression rubs salt in my bleeding wounds of shame.
Tires crunch over snow, and an engine rumbles behind me. I turn to spot a well-known logo on a white vine as the Channel Nine News Crew pulls up.
If this is a sign of what the next year will be like, I am utterly screwed. The crew parks a few feet away from the firetruck. A perky, enhanced breasts reporter with flawless make-up, who happens to be a shoo-in for the next Mrs. Lawson, steps out of the passenger seat onto towering heels. I don’t wish anyone ill will usually, but I wouldn’t mind seeing her slip on an ice patch. Her plum-colored wool coat contrasts with her stick-straight, glossy, blonde hair. She smiles, and the viciousness in her dark blue eyes makes my stomach churn.
Brittany Powers seems to think I still want Jackson. It’s made every interaction we have unnecessarily complicated and tense. As far as I’m concerned, she’s welcome to him. As my mother likes to say, you’ll lose him the same way you got him if you date a man already invested in another relationship. Brittany will spend their entire relationship looking over her shoulders and second-guessing his late nights and trips out of town for work. That’s a worse fate than anything I could do to her. Her thin lips curve up into a predatory grin, and she sashays her way toward me, a harpy on a mission.
“Ms. Lawson. We got the news that a fire started here. We’re so relieved to see you’re okay, and the fine members of our fire department have taken care of everything. Can you tell us what happened, Firefighter Jones?”
The man behind me cl
ears his throat. “It turns out it was a bit of a false alarm.”
I could kiss him.
“Oh?” Brittany arches her perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
Becoming acutely aware of my gray and white polka-dot joggers and old, faded college pullover, I pull my green plaid blanket closer and clear my throat.
“That’s right. Sorry to get you good folks out here at this time of night for no reason,” I say in a sickeningly sweet voice. Kill them with kindness.
“Well, we do follow the stories available in the town. How about a brief comment to reassure all these worried folks out here?” Brittany gestures toward the families crowding the porches, putting me on the spot.
Evil bitch.
“Of course.” I force a smile. The bright lights beam into my face, blinding me in the darkness as they’re set up. I have flashbacks to my time with Jackson. My palms sweat, and my heart rate accelerates. Chest tightening, I grip the blanket in my hand to remain grounded in the present.
“I’m here on New Year’s Eve with homeowner Matilda Lawson who’s ringing in 2021 in a rather unusual way. Can you tell us what happened?” She thrusts the microphone into my face. I clear my throat.
“Today, I learned that cookies are actually flammable.” I give a self-deprecating smile. They can’t laugh at me if I force them to laugh with me.
“Wow!” She shoots a stunned expression at the cameraman. “How did you manage that?”
“Somewhere in the process of cooking production, the broiler was turned on.” I widen my eyes comically. “You can imagine what would happen to cookies after the recommended fifteen to sixteen minutes in the oven.” I cringe. “If you can’t, I assure you it was nothing good.” The cameraman snickers, and Brittany’s eye twitches. Nice try. I know how to spin things. I learned at least that much from being married to a local celebrity.
The interview takes all of ten minutes, but I swear it equated to an eternity in hell.
“I guess you’ll need us to keep Clem longer, considering ...” Brittany gestures toward the house.
“No. It’ll be fine once it’s aired out.” My jaw clenches, but I keep my tone steady and calm.
“Pity. We made cookies for the new year, you know?” Her immaturity keeps her from working with Jackson and me to create a calm, cohesive environment. It’s going to end up being a problem.
I smile and nod.
“She told us how you two were going to enter the bake sale.” She looks at the retreating fire truck. “Don’t worry, Matilda. I’ll be sure to help Clem, so she’s not embarrassed or disappointed.”
My daughter is not a prize to be won. I resent Brittany’s continuous attempts to turn her into one. She might be my daughter’s stepmother one day, but she’ll never take my place.
“I got it, actually,” I say.
“Oh, I’ll be there covering it anyway. It won’t be a problem when you change your mind.” She winks and moves to help her crew pack up.
Oh hell no. I’ll do whatever it takes to show up at the bake sale and redeem myself with a smile on my face and cookies that put everyone else to shame. I’ll just need help to do it.
Later, on the couch, as I’m looking at cookie baking tutorials, I land on a local baker’s channel.
“Welcome to baking with Anders Rivera.”
My lady parts tingle as I sit up straighter. The handsome, olive-skinned man with facial hair and soulful brown eyes wasn’t what I expected. I can’t look away as his deep voice gives clear, concise explanations. His cookies are beautiful, and his offer at the end of the video seals the deal in my mind. This is the man I need. As the clock turns to twelve, I make a vow: New year, new me. And this version of myself will bake a damn good cookie.
ANDERS
“Are you going to do it?” Vander whispers into my ear as I nod.
Turning in my resignation before Christmas break was the hardest thing I’d done to date. R.A.A. Advertising had been built with the sweat, blood, and tears of my mom and dad. Their goal had been to create a legacy for my brothers—Evander and Winston—and me. The eldest at thirty-five, I remember the struggle to the top clearly. I’d grown up within the walls of this office.
Mom had picked me up after school and brought me here to do my homework in the conference room. Eventually, we’d all had cots set up for sleeping when they burned the midnight oil. The rise had been a slow climb to the top. Beautiful and painful to watch, it taught me work ethic, perseverance, and positivity paired with a can-do attitude will take you far. I’ll be forever grateful for all the sacrifices they’ve made on my behalf. Proud doesn’t begin to cover the way I feel about their success. But this has never been my dream.
“Please tell me Mom and Dad already know.” Winston’s worried voice comes from my right.
I shake my head and avoid meeting his dark brown eyes, so like our mother’s. Even at thirty, my baby brother worships the ground Papa walks on. Cut from the same cloth, the two have a special bond. They can speak to each other without words. Which makes my decision to leave hard for him to wrap his head around. This is his idea of heaven—a job he loves, operated by his family, and respected in the community.
“I can’t believe you left it to the last moment like this.” Evander’s voiced is laced with disapproval and disappointment.
I study his wrinkled brow and the hurt in his whiskey brown eyes. With his square jaw and aquiline nose, he’s a mixture of both parents.
“It was this, or ruin the holidays. I figured slipping my resignation in between the holiday breaks would be the lesser of two evils. It wasn’t an easy decision to make, so don’t ride me,” I snap.
“Why now?” Evander presses.
“You’ve been juggling the show and work for years.”
“And it cost me.” My shoulders droop. “I was exhausted, irritable, and stretched too thin. Remember how dark the circles under my eyes got? And how I was constantly dragging?”
“Yeah,” they chorus.
“Well, I went to the doctor and found out my iron was dangerously low. I was about .5 away from needing a blood transfusion. I’ve been taking a large amount of iron, vitamin D, and a multivitamin, and going back to the doctor monthly since.”
“Why the hell didn’t you say anything?” Evander barks
“Lower your voice.” I clear my throat and look around nervously. People continue with their conversations and snacking. “I didn’t want to worry you unnecessarily. I needed more information first. Plus, this felt like a sign to slow down. So, I did, and during that time, I thought about what I wanted. I had too many irons in the fire. Neither my body nor my mind can handle that load any longer.”
“You never have to worry alone,” Winston says.
“I know.” I keep the months I avoided the doctor because I was afraid the diagnosis would be far worse from them. Intense exhaustion, restlessness, and body aches are the poster boy for a bunch of illnesses. The word cancer crossed my mind many times. In the end, what frightened me most wasn’t the thought of death itself, but knowing I’d never fully lived.
“We’re only given so much time. It’s imperative to spend it wisely. This situation was a wake-up call for me. “
“And you’re not sick?” Evander asks.
“Only in the head.” I wiggle my eyebrows, and they shove me gently, dispelling the tension. It’s a company tradition to announce the people who are leaving at the end of the year, so everyone can wish them well as they’re sent off with a gift of some sort. I tried to bring up going full time with my baking a dozen times, but they dismissed it as foolish or ignored me. This move made things permanent.
“Now is the time of the party we find bittersweet,” my father states as he moves to the head of the room with a microphone. My mother stands beside him, regal in her floor-length, black dress with a smattering of white snowflakes on it. There are laugh lines around their mouths. Crows’ feet have deepened around their eyes, and the coal-black hair is streaked with gray. They’ve aged gracefull
y, but its clear time has passed. I know them both well enough to recognize the strain in my mother’s smile, and the anger burning in the depths of my father’s dark eyes.
They know, and they’re as displeased as I imagined they’d be.
“Our intern, Janelle, will be leaving us to focus on her final semester in college. We wish her all the luck in the world. We’re hoping a new Mac Air will help with that.”
The curvy brunette with the soft voice covers her mouth as her hazel eyes widen. She lowers her hand. “I can’t thank you enough.” She turns to face the crowd. “All of you. For the experience, guidance, and now the computer.” Walking forward, she hugs my mom and shakes Papa’s hand. Annie, the secretary, walks over with a wrapped box.
My brothers step a little closer, silently giving me their strength and support. I straighten to my full six-foot-one height and hold my head up high. I’m ready.
“Last, we’ll be saying good-bye to a cornerstone of our company. This person has been here since the very beginning, and we’re sad to see him go. Our son, Anders, will be stepping away to focus on his baking career.” Gasps and murmurs sweep through the crowd. “We wish him all the best, and hope our company’s donation to Bake and Partake will help him reach his new goals.” The words are kind and supportive, but I hear the insincerity.
The crowd explodes in applause. People surge toward me, shaking my hand, asking questions, and giving hugs. I let their buzz draw my attention away from my issues with my parents.
As the party ends and the door closes behind the last employee, I turn to face the music.
“This is how you tell us you’re leaving the family business?” Papa’s voice is deep and tinged with fury. Each word he speaks is clipped.
“It guaranteed you would listen,” I speak the truth quietly, keeping my voice calm and neutral. I refuse to let this blow up into a heated argument. What’s done is done.
“I listened before. You are the one who never liked what I had to say. You leave all your clients and creations behind to do what?” He throws his hands up in the air. “Chase a pipe dream? Baking is a hobby, not a career.” The words are tiny rocks flung toward the stained-glass window of my soul. Each hit lands, weakening the shell meant to protect what means the most to me.
