“Unfortunately, no, he did not touch my Christmas cookies, baked or otherwise. Not that I have the wherewithal right now to try and fight off Amber for him,” I replied. But the thought of Amber sticking her claws into Owen really made me want to go allHoliday in Handcuffson someone.
Even if Owen didn't like Christmas or Christmas cookies, he was still a good man. I knew what kind of girl Amber was—flaky, manipulative, destructive. I didn't want Owen in her crosshairs, even if he did hate Christmas cookies.
Down, brain. Think of your financial situation. I need solutions, not more problems. Owen is a grown man. He can handle himself.
My brain bashed me in the face with another image of Owen half naked, the bulge of his Christmas package visible in his boxer briefs.
Yes, I thought,grown male.
My phone buzzed. I had ten more new subscribers for the Taste My Muffin baking subscription box.
“Can you still help me bake?” I begged Morticia. “I have three hundred boxes to mail out.”
“Fine,” Morticia said, prowling around the kitchen. “However, we do not have enough flour. Or butter.”
“Guess we're going shopping!”
“Can you afford it?” she asked in a genuine display of concern.
I tamped down thoughts of losing all my grandmother’s Christmas decorations in the storage unit. The baking boxes were an investment toward saving them.
“Hey, my credit card debt needs more debt to keep it from feeling so lonely!”
*
We leftearlyish the next morning for the store. My years of working in kitchens had put me on the “work until three a.m. and sleep until noon” schedule then rinse and repeat ad nauseum until you just randomly quit one day and start a failing baking subscription service then in a fit of delusion join a Christmas baking TV show that will magically make your problems go away.
Fiona rode down in the elevator with me.
“Thanks for coming with,” I told her.
“I love shopping! Plus I want to take pictures of the Christmas displays,” she said happily.
Morticia had a long black scarf wrapped around her neck, probably more to ward against the Christmas spirit than the cold. I peered at her.
“Do you have red glitter in your scarf?” I asked, pointing.
“I better not,” she hissed, clawing at the scarf. “It’s tinsel from your ridiculous sweater.”
I was wearing a fun sweater that I'd bought on impulse.
“This is a nice sweater!” I protested, looking down. The sweater depicted a corgi wearing a Santa Claus hat. His nose blinked red.
“It's cute, Morticia! I should buy you one!” I teased.
“You put that on me, you're losing a finger,” she threatened.
The specialty food store was crowded. Fiona grabbed a cart.
“What are you making? I'm sure you'll need butter,” she said, loading up the cart. “And cream.”
“I want to make Christmas rum-punch pound cake, hot cocoa brownies, and crème brûlée sugar cookies,” I said.
“So chocolate and more chocolate!” Fiona laughed.
Morticia dumped an armload of ingredients into the cart. “Here are more oranges,” she said. “And booze.”
“I don't think we need two bottles of rum.”
