Where there are ingredients and cookie cutters scattered all over the countertop of the kitchen.
Flour, sugar, frosting packets, measuring cups, stick butter, spices, sprinkles, and everything I could possibly need to make Christmas cookies.
“I never did get to try your cinnamon cheesecake cookies,” Bronte mutters behind me, causing my face to skew because he thought of everything.
He put time into everything.
He’s showing me everything.
Is this bullshit? Is this going to stop and change when we get back to the States?
“However, Alexander, my head of security, couldn’t find any cream cheese. So, I was hoping you could whip something else up.”
I love making Christmas cookies.
Like, it’s unhealthy how much I love baking them. It’s something my mother and I used to do every year when I lived at home in upstate New York. I carried the tradition in New York City, and we’d video call each other while we did it, so we could be together still.
And now, I’m on my honeymoon. I was okay with not making Christmas cookies because I’d be here and have my mind kept busy with other things, but…now I don’t have to.
Tears well up in my eyes, and I try to suck them back in. It’s embarrassing how something so small like this is getting me emotional.
I had a really good day with Bronte. I don’t want to ruin it by crying like a child.
“This is perfect,” I utter softly, unzipping my coat so I can focus on something. “I love it.”
“Good.” He suddenly kisses the top of my head from behind while his chest brushes against my shoulders. “I’m no good at this. I’m going to stay out of your way. My mother always taught me to stay the hell out of the kitchen when a woman is working unless asked.”
“Yeah,” I agree, swallowing down the emotions bubbling in me that threaten to break free. “Kick rocks, please.”
“I’m gone then.” He disappears, and I hear him stride out of the kitchen and around to the living space. “What movie, Daydream? I know you have a list.”
I watch him find the remote. The kitchen has an open access to where you can see inside the living room, so I could see the TVfrom here. It’s the perfect setup.
Everything is perfect, and I hate it.
I hate that it feels somewhat comfortable.
“Have we… ever watched one together?” I ask before he glances stoically at me.
“Once,” he mutters.
Oh, God.
Now, he’s going to ruin Christmas movies for me.
“Which?
I try to go back to Christmases before. But I watch so many that I can’t land on one.
Sometimes Bobby would watch a few with me, other times we’d cuddle and mess around. But, most of the time, he wouldn’t be home or working.
Or fucking someone else with recent receipts.
Bronte doesn’t answer the question when he fishes his phone out of his back pocket and glances down at it.
Then he promptly glowers.
I notice the way his jaw tightens before he rights it and inhales deeply from his nose.
