Millie: I just hate how peaceful you look.
Micah: Are you two holding hands? Ew.
Emil: Hot guys cuddling babies. Gross.
Lena: I need new best friends.
“How many pounds of butter are we going to need?” Zara’s muffled voice breaks through my concentration, and I turn to find her entire upper body inside the refrigerator, hunting for ingredients.
Mama, Zara, Luci, Pen, and I are teaming up to bake enough cookies to feed an army before the Bear Creek Christmas festival this afternoon.
I shove my phone away from the baking headquarters and scan the stained and tattered pages in Mama’s homemade cookbook. These cookie recipes are her prized possessions. It’s quite possible she loves them more than me and Auggie.
“At least three?” I call to Zara, flipping between recipes.
Zara drops three boxes of butter on the counter and mumbles, “This seems excessive,” as I move to the sink to wash my hands.
Through the window, I catch a glimpse of Gavin and Auggie in the large empty lot next door. They pace back and forth through the snow as I lather my hands.
“What are they up to?” Mama wonders, putting a hand on my lower back.
Suspicion crawls up my spine as we watch them turn in a circle.
“Boring stuff, probably,” Penelope says, wedging between us to look out the window.
Gavin’s expression is serious as he stands and nods. He doesn’t have a hat on, so his dark hair is being blown about by the winter wind, and even from here, I can see his nose and cheeks are rosy from the chill.
Auggie, on the other hand, is like a puppy in the snow, bouncing around and pointing in every direction with a huge smile.
“Zara.” I turn to find her unwrapping a stick of butter. “Do you know what—”
“Wanna help me?” she interrupts with a too-bright smile, holding one in my direction.
I squint at her before looking back over my shoulder to find the guys trudging back to the house. I’m definitely missing some information here, but Christmas isn’t the time to go poking around. It’s probably some sort of surprise for the kids, so I’ll pester Zara about it later.
As I’m pulling the measuring spoons from a drawer, Gavin and Auggie walk in the back door, filling the kitchen with their deep voices.
Mama leans in front of me and snaps her recipe book shut. Then she walks to the corner of the kitchen where clutter tends to accumulate and sets her notebook down. She picks up a flawless, hardback book and sets that in front of me.
Gluten-Free Baking for the Holidays
My brows jump to my hairline as I blink between the book and my mother’s retreating form. I’m a gaping fish in the middle of the kitchen, utterly in shock that she’s not usingherbook.
I’m pretty sure she wants to be buried with those recipes. She won’t even let me make copies of them to share with Millie.
And yet she’s tossed them aside to make something Gavin can enjoy.
I spin to find her helping Penelope crack eggs into a bowl, with Gavin beside her, slinging a red apron over his neck.
“The book is next to Lena,” Mama says, patting his arm.
Gavin douses me in his masculine pine scent as he steps up to the counter and flips through the book. I’m mesmerized as the pads of his fingers glide over his lips while he scans a cookie recipe. Then, with a nod, he sets down the book and shoves the sleeves of his black sweater up his arms.
My vision tracks in slow motion as the fabric moves to reveal his thick forearms, covered in lines of tattoos. The snake on his skin coils around his muscles, and I wish my hands could do the same.
“Spritz or crinkle first?” He flashes me a brilliant smile that tilts my stomach on its axis.
“Yeah. Yes,” I stammer.
