“You already thanked me.”
“Well, I’m doing it again.”
The corner of my mouth twitches.
I move to the fire and add two logs. The heat’s good, but we’ll need more. I fill the kettle and set it on the stove.
Holly glances at the kitchen. “How would you feel about baking cookies? I have a sweet tooth and don’t want to eat all your cookies. Also, it seems like a waste not to use your oven.”
My oven. The one Emma used every December to make seven different kinds of cookies she’d package in tins with ribbons and handwritten tags.
My throat tightens.
Holly notices. “If it’s too much?—”
“It’s fine.”
“Cole—”
“I said it’s fine.” I move to the sink, fill a glass with water, and drain it. Then I set the glass down on the counter. “Oven works. Use it.”
She studies my face. “Okay.”
Holly washes her hands. She pulls out the ingredients and mixes them in a bowl.
“Need a recipe?” I ask.
“I’ve made so many I’ve memorized it.” She rolls dough into balls and spaces them on a baking sheet I didn’t know I still had.
The oven clicks on. Preheating.
I sit at the table and pretend to check my phone. Really, I’m watching her move around my kitchen like she’s done it a hundred times.
She hums under her breath—a carol, maybe. Emma used to do that, too.
The oven beeps. Holly slides the tray in and sets a timer on her phone.
“Twelve minutes,” she says. “Perfect time for tea?”
“Coffee.”
“Coffee works.”
I stand and turn on the percolator. Holly leans against the counter, waiting, and I blink. She’s still here. Real.
I haven’t had anyone in this space in three years.
Now a woman is making cookies in my kitchen, and it should feel wrong.
It doesn’t.
Five minutes later, the smell hits.
Cinnamon. Butter. Sugar. Warmth spreads through the cabin in waves.
Emma’s kitchen. Her laugh. Flour on her cheek, frosting on her fingers, and the way she’d make me taste-test every batch even though they were always perfect.
“Cole?” Holly’s voice cuts through.
