Puffcake flew over to Eliza’s side, nudging her with his snout, then curled into her lap. His little body was as warm as a loaf of fresh bread from the oven.
“I’m proud of you,” Lachlan whispered. “For the contest, for facing that little shoeless tosspot and standing your ground.”
She met his eyes. There wasn’t any judgment there, only awe. He truly meant it. “Thank you.”
She craned her neck and planted a kiss on his cheek. He turned toward her, cupping her face and capturing her lips in a slow, gentle kiss that took her breath away. He tasted of the lingering sweetness from the scones and hot chocolate they’d shared earlier that evening.
For the first time in years, Eliza didn’t feel small. She didn’t feel like someone’s mistake or second best. She felt … possible. She felt the weight of that possibility, a future she hadn’t dared to imagine, but only hoped she could find one day.
Outside, the snow drifted in soft, swirling spirals, catching in the kitchen light like falling stars. She thought to wish upon one of them, but something like anxiety swelled in her chest. Davis’s presence had caused the doubt to sprinkle its way back inside.
Beginnings always came to endings, did they not? As their remaining hours dwindled and their stay slipped closer to its ending, a single question plagued her. What would happen when the week was over?
Eliza yawned as she slipped out of bed. Today, she was the last one to rise, with Puffcake and Lachlan already up and in the kitchen.
Puffcake’s wings were batting away as he used his claws to dump batter over onto the cooker. The thick cream slowly oozed onto the pan with a soft sizzle. Lachlan nodded his thanks, spatula in hand and shamelessly wearing Eliza’s apron again.
“Careful there, Puff,” she said as she moved toward the coffee pot. “You’re going to burn yourself medium rare.”
Lachlan snickered; however, Puffcake didn't like the idea of being the object of someone else’s joke. He let out a little puff of smoke in answer.
“That’s fair, you are somehow a fire-breathing, sugar-huffing edible dragon,” she replied.
“Merry Christmas Eve,” Lachlan moved around the island to Eliza, pulling her close to him. He smelled like his usual evergreen scent mixed with batter.
“Lachlan, I thought we had an understanding to leave the baking up to me.” She looked up to find him already smiling down at her.
“I know, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to do sweet things for you from time to time.”
He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead before planting a second kiss on her lips. He kissed her the way one savored the first bite of dessert—slow and reverent, and sweet on the tongue. Taking it all in, as if the moment itself was perfectly warm and golden; too precious to rush, and too perfect to waste.
Lachlan broke away abruptly, resuming his duties over the cooker. “Gotta get back to breakfast. Don’t wanna be two for two in burning anything,” he apologized quickly.
He flipped the pancake, and Eliza finally got a good look around the house.
The broken window had magically fixed itself overnight, and the snow globe was back inside, sitting on the shelf. It was like all traces of Davis were gone—except for the lump of uncertainty in her heart.
The house seemed to glow a bright shade of amber, the multicolor string lights of the evergreen mixing their vibrant hues around the house like a kaleidoscope of color. Along thehearth were three knitted stockings. And on the counter wasIsadora’s Memory-Baking Cookbook.
“W–where did you get that?” Eliza asked nervously.
Lachlan didn’t look up from his work, only smiling to himself. “They were hung up when I woke up, too. Thought you must’ve created that touch, but I guess I was wrong.”
“Not the stockings,” she swallowed. Her finger shook as she pointed to the cookbook. “That.”
He followed her gaze. “Oh, just from the cupboard where the rest of the cookbooks are. You haven’t used this one yet? Figured you’d have blown through all of the recipes in every cookbook here so far?—”
“That’s the thing … I have.” Eliza said, “There’s no recipe for American pancakes in Isadora’s cookbook.” She’d baked the last recipe in the cookbook two evenings ago.
What was going on? Did the cookbook reveal another recipe? When they eat the pancakes, would they both see another memory? Would it somehow unlock another sad flashback of Isadora’s life?
“Yeah, there is,” Lachlan protested, shrugging it off. He didn’t seem to catch her uneasiness. After all, why would he? He hadn’t been the one to see the memories within the recipes. “Page 13. It flipped straight to it for me. It’s like the housewantedme to bake this for you. Any particular reason?”
“They’re my favorite.”
Lachlan just stared at her before bursting into laughter. “Of all the astounding, literal award-winning desserts, American pancakes are your favorite. You surprise me every day, Snow.”
“It was the first thing my nan taught me to make,” she said softly.
