Right there in the middle is one of my favorite pictures of all time. A picture of me and Emmy from the town’s Christmas kick-off our senior year of high school. She’s smiling as brightly as the lights on the tree behind us, and I’m looking at her like there’s no one else in this world. I didn’t see it then, but damn if I don’t see it now. The love and adoration I have for this woman, even back then.
She steps toward the fireplace and runs a hand over the frame. “I have this same photo sitting on my desk at home,” she says softly.
I move so that I’m standing behind her and gently rest my hands on her hips. “You know, Em, …I think it’s always been you.”
She doesn’t pull away—not immediately. Instead, she leans back slightly leaning her back against my chest. And she lets me trace slow circles over her hips.
“I—” Her fingers brush her collarbone, a nervous sweep she probably doesn’t realize she’s doing. “I don’t know what to say.” Her voice comes out soft and raw, like the words themselves are a risk.
“You don’t have to say anything,” I murmur, letting my lips brush the shell of her ear. “Tonight, we just bake. No expectations. Just us.”
She exhales a shaky laugh and spins around to face me, hands resting lightly on my chest. “Us, huh? You’re awfully confident for someone who knows my sister is not above sending out a search party for me.”
“I’ve survived worse than Evie,” I tease, letting my hands slide down a little further, giving her ass a gentle squeeze.
She rolls her eyes playfully but moves toward the counter where the ingredients are set up. “All right, Master Baker, show me what your kitchen can do.”
I grab a bowl and a whisk, and soon we’re side by side, measuring, mixing, and sprinkling chocolate chips. She sneaks glances at me while measuring flour, and I catch her, giving a teasing grin in return. Her blush is subtle but real.
Halfway through, she pauses, “And now, we add the maple.”
I jog over to where I hung my jacket and pull out the bottle of maple extract from earlier. “Now we add the maple.”
“I still can’t believe you remember after all those years.”
“AndIcan’t believe you forgot,” I tease, tapping the tip of her nose with a smudge of flour.
She giggles, swiping the flour from her nose.“You know,” she murmurs, “this smells exactly like Grandpa’s kitchen. I feel like I’m a kid again.”
I lean a little closer, resting my forehead on hers. “That’s the point,” I murmur, my voice low. “A little nostalgia, a little magic. All in the name of holiday cheer.”
She shivers from my breath on her skin. I wait for her to step away, but she doesn’t. She scoops another blob of dough, pausing to let her fingers linger just a moment on mine. I feel the warmth of her hand, the tiny electric pull that always shoots straight to my chest.
“You know,” she says softly, glancing down at the bowl in front of her, “I could forget the cookies for a minute.”
“Could you now?” I counter, closing the distance until I can feel her heartbeat against me. “And what would you do instead?”
Her lips twitch into a smile, shy, teasing, dangerous. “I’d kiss you. Maybe more.”
I laugh softly, low in my chest. “Good answer.” My fingers brush the side of her face, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She leans into it, eyes fluttering shut for a second.
I can’t resist. I guide her finger to my lips and lick the dough off. Then, I kiss her. This one is quick, just enough to get my point across.
“Delicious. Just like you.” I wink.
Emmy lets out a soft mew that jolts straight through me.
“Hayes,” she breathes, voice thick with amusement and something deeper, something softer that makes my chest clench.
“Em,” I murmur, leaning closer, letting my hand trail down her back, brushing against the curve of her waist. “You better hurry and get that first batch on a cookie sheet,” I say, my lips brushing her ear as I whisper, “That gives me about ten minutes to make out with you.”
She laughs, shoving a tiny bit of dough at me playfully. I can feel her warmth, smell the vanilla and pine from the diffuser mixing with Em’s own soft smell—vanilla and sugar, always. I take a slow breath, memorizing her, savoring the moment.
My house finally feels like home.
When the first tray goes into the oven, she leans against me from behind, her arms slipping around my waist as she rests her head on the back of my shoulder. I feel her heartbeat, fast and warm, and I let my own hands settle over hers, squeezing gently.
“I could get used to this,” she whispers, voice soft, barely audible over the hum of the mixer.
