Instead, I reached over and took the rolling pin from her hand. “Then we’ll try to make it like home as much as possible.”
Her eyes lifted, surprised. “What?”
I shrugged, feeling a bit sheepish. “We can put up your decorations, bake whatever you want to bake.”
For a moment, she just looked at me — like she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Then she smiled, small but real. “You’re full of surprises.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
She giggled. “Too late.”
We baked in silence for a while, the kind that felt like warmth instead of weight. After rolling out the dough, we used Christmas cookie cutters to cut out the shapes.
“They look pretty good,” I stated as she put the cookie sheet into the oven.
“It’s an easy recipe; hard to mess up,” she replied with a laugh.
“Hard to burn toast, too,” I teased, fighting a chuckle.
Gianina clicked her tongue and smacked me with an oven mitt. “Rude.”
The cookies came out uneven, some burnt around the edges, but she declared them perfect anyway.
When she bit into one, crumbs dusted her lip. I caught myself staring.
She noticed. “What?”
“Nothing,” I replied quickly, looking down at my snowman cookie.
She smiled again, softer this time. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“Good thing I’m better at other things.”
“Like cleaning up dead bodies?”
I smirked. “You and dead bodies.”
Her laugh came again, quieter, more careful. The firelight caught in her hair, intensifying the red hue that was hard to see in the regular light, and for a second, the storm outside didn’t exist.
It was just the two of us; a man who didn’t know what peace felt like and a woman who made him forget that for a heartbeat.
And somehow, that was more dangerous than anything lurking out in the snow.
Chapter Seven
Gia
The cabin smelled like cookies and pine needles.
Well, mostly cookies. The pine was courtesy of a garland I’d strung across the mantle.
I’d laid everything out on the table: lights, garland, tinsel, stockings and a box of ornaments; nothing fancy, but they sparkled in the low light from the fire.
It felt good to do something. To make the place look like more than a safe house.
Something homey; something warm.
I hummed quietly as I worked — a Christmas tune I didn’t even realize I remembered — and threaded a string of lights throughout the garland. The storm outside glowed white in the reflection, flakes swirling thick and soft.
