I’m not tired though. My brain is racing from the hockey game, my brother’s excitement over his job, the pickleball post Ronnie reshared. And the effect of it—I’ve already gotten some orders for Christmas cookies thanks to the socials exposure.
No way can I sleep now.
But I’m also…waiting for him. Wondering if Corbin is going to take me up on my offer to slip over in the middle of the night.
My fingers itch to check my phone. I give in, grabbing it from the bed.
My shoulders sink. There are zero new text messages. I fling it back on the mattress.
I pull on sleep shorts, grab the phone, and head down to the kitchen. Time to do some prep for tomorrow. I pull out ingredients from the pantry and the fridge.
It’s okay if he doesn’t show up.
We’re not a thing.
We’re also not a fake thing anymore either.
It’s not like we need to fake date for the town, like Theo said. Even if people make assumptions from Tiffany and Brittany’s post, there’s nothing riding on us pretending to be together. Corbin and I aren’t fake dating, and I feel a little empty about that.
Which is an annoying way to feel. I remind myself we’re just business partners with benefits and that’s fine. It was my damn idea. It’s fine, too, if we don’t have the benefits tonight.
I’ll survive, even though my chest aches with the wish that he’d come over.
Fine, it’s notonlymy chest aching.
I toggle over to my playlists and queue up some Christmas music as I prep the dough for the Christmas cookies I’ll make tomorrow—red trucks, wreaths, trees, and snowmen and snowwomen.
When that’s done, I wash my hands, my gaze straying to the cupboard with the letters. There’s a tug in my chest, like an invisible rope is pulling me toward it.
I check my phone again.
Nothing. Icouldtext him. But I don’t want to be needy. I was already the neediest when I twisted his arm to open this bakery. I have no idea what the rules of the road are for navigating a one-time-only fling that morphs into an anytime fling. I don’t want to text with aHey,are you coming?
That feels like relationship territory. I need to put my mind on something else. Maybe I’ll peek at the next letter myself.
I pull out the stepladder, climb it, grab the strawberry jar, and then freeze.
I’m the kid with her hand in the cookie jar.
Isn’t this how I wound up leaving this town in the first place? I wasn’t patient. I didn’t put the sugar cookies away, and the llamas ate them, and the story ofOld McMabel and the Four Animals of the Firehouse Apocalypsebegan.
Here. Right here in this firehouse. And I hightailed it out of town.
This time around, I need to slow down, be patient, be precise.
I made a deal with Corbin, so I put the jar back, climb down, and turn off the lights.
I go upstairs, and tumble into bed, slipping under the covers as a yawn comes over me at last. The full-body kind. I stretch and before I know it, the day floats before my eyelids and the night pulls me into its embrace.
A hand slides up my thigh. A voice, gravelly and familiar, drifts past my ears.
I reach for the strong hand, guiding it toward the ache between my legs. I wriggle closer. My hips arch. My legs fall open. I chase the sensation, needing more, but it’s still not quite enough.
I part my lips to ask for more pressure, more contact, something, but?—
I wake with a start, blinking, pushing up onto my elbows, eyes orienting to the dark.
“Hey.” Corbin’s standing by the bed wearing jeans and a T-shirt. His shoes are off. He’s not sitting on the bed. He’s not touching me either. Was I…dreaming?
