Lauren nibbles her lip, slightly less confident this is a great idea. She adjusts her plaid scarf, tucking it so it lays just right over her cropped brown suede jacket, and then she runs her hand down the dark-wash jeans that are her idea of casual attire.
Brandon’s sister is dramatic and vibrant, but she’s not usually fidgety. Something tells me she doesn’t think me pairing up with Sadie is the best idea.
She shares a glance with her brother, and it’s obvious neither thinks I can do it.
I’ll simply have to prove them wrong.
“Since this isa Christmas cookie bake-off, I think we should audition with a variation of a gingerbread cookie,” I say as I page through various cookbooks I’ve collected over the years. The one I’m looking at now is yellowed, and the pages are torn. There are even a few smudges of flour and butter stains here and there. It’smy grandmother’s favorite, passed down fromhergrandmother, and she made me swear that I would be careful with it.
“Hmmm…” Sadie browses the cookbooks, gravitating toward the ones with the pretty pictures. “I think a lot of people will go with gingerbread. What about a linzer cookie bar?”
“No one likes fruity cookies,” I argue, regretting yet again agreeing to do this. I’m not a partner person. I’m an everything-will-go-smoothly-if-you-follow-my-orders-like-a-good-minion person. But Sadie, despite her vacant expression and wispy giggle, is proving to be less than stellar minion material. She has ideas.Andthoughts.Andopinions.
Which, frankly, are three things I don’t need in a lackey.
She looks up, her eyes bright. “Yes, but what about a chocolate raspberry linzer cookie with almonds?”
I purse my lips. “Where did you find a recipe for that?”
Excited, little Miss Alice snaps the cookbook shut. “I didn’t—we’ll make it ourselves!”
Needless to say, we discuss it (argue) for the rest of the afternoon. Brandon hovers nearby like a chaperone ready to sweep in if I even think about hurting darling Sadie’s feelings. He’s binge-watching old Christmas movies in the living room like an eighty-year-old woman, and the familiar chatter and music drifts into the kitchen, a comfortable background to an otherwise awkward afternoon.
He wanders in now, looking bored to death. I avert my eyes as he squeezes Sadie’s shoulder, trying not to remember a time when his casual touches were all for me.
On a commercial break, the television blares Mason Knight’s Christmas song. I’ve seen the advertisement so many times, I can visualize Mason and the model they paired him with, all decked out in designer coats and scarves, trotting through the snow and laughing as the announcer proudly proclaims the store has gifts for everyone in the family. On cue, she’s interrupted bya barking dog, and she laughs in such a real way, it can only be fake. “Yes,” the voice-over says, “even your furry best friend.”
Limited time…exclusions, exclusions…blah blah blah.
But this time, the commercial doesn’t end there. Before it cuts out, the woman adds, “And don’t forget to watch Mason Knight as a guest judge on HBN’s Christmas Cookie Bake-off!”
Leaving the kitchen, I stand in front of the television, frowning. Mason stares back at me and the rest of America, grinning that lopsided, dimpled grin that made him a household name and had fourteen-year-old Riley smitten.
He is good-looking, I admit to myself grudgingly. More so now than when he was young. He has a knack for singling you out, even through the camera, with his gray eyes trained right on you, the corners crinkling in a genuine way. Flakes of fake Hollywood snow cling to his cool, ash-brown hair. He wears it short, but it's a touch longer than Brandon’s. Though it’s not as artfully messy as Lauren’s boyfriend’s, it’s definitely held in place with some kind of product.
“Do you think he’ll be at the tryouts?” Sadie asks from my side.
I jump, startled to find her next to me. “I doubt it. In fact, I bet he only makes a few short appearances for the cameras. The contestants probably won’t see him more than a handful of minutes, tops.”
The woman rattles off dates and times, and then the commercial finally changes. A demon child appears on the screen, gleefully tossing milk on the floor in a paper towel advertisement.
Shaking my head, I walk back to the kitchen. The Alderman’s counter is littered with cookbooks and handwritten recipes.
“Hey,” Brandon says when Sadie excuses herself to the bathroom. He hovers in the doorway, hesitant to enter.
I look up from an old Christmas dessert-themed magazine.
His hands are shoved into his pockets, and his shoulders are slightly hunched as if he’s trying to make himself as small and unassuming as possible—which is funny considering how tall andassuminghe is.
Brandon looks at me like I’m a grizzly, ready to tear him to shreds. I narrow my eyes and wait for him to speak.
He shifts his weight. “I know this is…uncomfortable for you. But it means a lot to Sadie, and I wanted to” —he clears his throat— “thank you for including her.”
Brandon looks so vulnerable and unsure, I immediately want to ask himwhyit would be uncomfortable—attack when he’s weak. But then I shake the thought away. What’swrongwith me?
“It’s not a problem.” I flip a page. “It’s not like we’re going to make it onto the show anyway.”
He studies the garland greenery hanging in the arch. “Say, we, uh, never got a chance to finish our conversation yesterday.”
