But it wasn’t that simple. Nothing between us ever had been.
Kelsey scrambled off the island, nearly taking me down with her when her knees buckled. I caught her around the waist, steadying her while she found her footing.
“How ‘bout I get the cookies and you just stand here and look pretty?”
She shot me a look that was equal parts annoyed and satisfied. “This is your fault,” she muttered, tugging the flannel back on with shaking fingers. “I think you broke me.”
“Yeah?” I couldn’t keep the grin off my face as I pulled the cookies out and set them on the stovetop before sliding the next pan in. “You complaining?”
She opened her mouth, probably to tell me exactly where I could shove my smugness but closed it again when she caught sight of the cookies. They were perfect—golden brown, edges crisp, centers still soft.
“Huh.” She tilted her head, examining them. “Would you look at that. It’s a Christmas miracle.”
“Told you I wouldn’t let them burn.”
“No, you told me I had twelve minutes to come,” she corrected, grabbing a spatula to transfer them. “Which, for the record, is an insane thing to say to someone.”
“No, insane would have been seeing how many times I could make you come before the next batch was done.” I waggled my eyebrows in the least mature way possible, and she snorted, a sound so familiar and sweetit almost hurt.
“A+ for confidence, but an F-minus for humility,” she said, refusing to look at me. Not that it mattered. The flush creeping up her neck told me everything I needed to know.
I watched as she lined the cookies up in perfect rows on the cooling rack, trying to memorize every detail of the moment—my flannel shirt swallowing her frame, the bare skin of her thighs peeking out from below, her damp hair curling around her face like she’d just crawled out of bed after the best sex of her life.
“You’re staring,” Kelsey said without turning.
“Damn right I am.” No point pretending otherwise. “It’s been a long time since I got to see you like this. Let me look.”
A beat passed. Her hands paused mid-cookie transfer, then slowly relaxed. She turned around, eyes searching my face. “You’re really not going to make a move, huh?”
“Already made my move, baby,” I said, dropping my voice to a rumble. “More than once. But I’m not pushing it.” I crossed my arms, rooted to the tile so she could see I meant it. “This is fine.”
Her laugh was bright and genuine, the sound filling up all the empty spaces in my chest I’d been trying to ignore. “Who the hell are you, and what have you done with my ex-husband?”
My smile faded. “Trying to do it different. That’s all.”
This time, when her eyes met mine, there was something like tenderness in the way she looked at me—as if she was seeing through to the inside, to the scared asshole who just wanted to keep her safe and close and happy, even if he didn’t know how.
“You’re right,” she murmured, toying with a button on her shirt. “We’ve got at least seven more batches to go. Better pace yourself, Riggs. You’re not as young as you once were, and I’d hate for you to start something you can’t finish.”
I crossed the kitchen in three strides, caging her against a cabinet. “You questioning my stamina, sweetheart?”
“Maybe I am.” She tilted her chin up, defiant even in surrender. “What are you gonna do about it?”
I cracked my neck from side to side and rolled my shoulders before dropping back to my knees between her spread legs. “Oh, darlin’. I’m gonna prove you wrong.”
The fire crackled as I tossed another log in, sending sparks spiraling up the chimney like tiny orange stars. The whole cabin still smelled like gingerbread—a scent that would forever remind me of Kelsey on my tongue, of her coming apart in my kitchen. Repeatedly.
I dusted off my hands and turned to find her curled up on the couch in yet another shirt she’d claimed as her own, remote in hand, scrolling through my streaming options with the kind of intense focus most people reserved for major life decisions.
“The Muppet Christmas Carol?” I asked, unable to keep the grin off my face when I saw her selection. “Really?”
She shot me a look. “You love this movie.”
“I tolerate this movie,” I corrected.
“Well, too bad because it’s tradition, mister,” she said, which wasn’t all that far from the truth. It had been Addie’s favorite since she was five, and she’d demanded we watch it every Christmas Eve until it became as much a tradition as hanging stockings or leaving cookies for Santa.
I flicked off the overhead lights, leaving just the tree and fireplace to illuminate the room. The shadows softened everything, made it easier to pretend this was just another December night from before. When movie night was sacred, when all three kids would pile on the couch between us, back when everything made sense.
