“I don't care about a winning the Christmas bake-off,” Amber said. “I'm here to snag a billionaire boyfriend.”
“I don’t see how,” I said, taking the cookie cups out of the pans to cool.
“He's going to get tired of you soon enough. Besides, I know his habits. I know what he likes,” Amber insisted.
“No you don't.”
“I've been following him,” she said. “I have a lot more material for my scrapbook. See?” she said, taking out her phone and swiping through several pictures of Owen.
“You are a lunatic.”
“I'm doing what has to be done,” she said, tossing her head with a tinkling of the bells on her costume. “Just like how Meghan Markle went after her prince, I'm going after my winter prince. He and I are going to have a beautiful wedding. I have my dress all picked out. My dad said he was going to pay for my dream wedding to my dream man. And Owen is the man I want.”
“Whatever.”
I stewed as I finished making the next thousand cookie cups. As much as I loved Christmas baking, this holiday party bake-off was becoming a little tedious. Especially since Amber was crisscrossing the room being obnoxious. She was wearing her elf-on-the-shelf outfit, and it jangled with every step she took. Between that and the ticking clock, I was starting to feel slightly frazzled. Maybe I had been too ambitious.
I had the last set of cookies to go—the oatmeal cookies. I babysat them while they baked. As they cooled, I started mixing the cocktails.
First was the syrup. I could have bought ginger syrup, but I wanted a nice kick, so I was making it from scratch. I chopped up several pounds of ginger and set it to simmer in a pot, where it burbled happily.
Then I started with the bourbon hot chocolate. Using two huge soup stock pots, I slowly brought milk up to temperature, whisking in the chocolate powder. Since the cookie was very sweet, I only added a scant amount of sugar. I wanted these to be boozy. What was the point of an alcoholic dessert if you didn't get a buzz? So I took the hot chocolate off the heat to cool before I added the bourbon.
Next was the fruity cocktail. The onlookers, many of them taking an extended lunch break that was turning into an early holiday party break, cheered as I poured bottle after bottle of vodka into a big tub. I glugged in gallons of pomegranate and cranberry juice then smoked sprigs of rosemary, rolling them in my hands to release the oils before throwing them in.
“It's beautiful!” someone called out. More cheering.
Last was the dirty gingerbread martini. I wheeled over a crate of Kahlúa and another of Baileys Irish Cream. That went into the tub first then the vodka. This cocktail was just alcohol, alcohol, and more alcohol with some flavored syrup. I tasted it.
“Man,” I said, the back of my throat burning, “that is strong.”
I checked the clock. I needed to coat my cookies. I set white and dark chocolate to melt on the stove as I mixed the bourbon with the now-room-temperature hot chocolate. The lobby was getting crowded. Dana was telling everyone to start lining up.
The chocolate didn't take too long to melt, I was happy to see. Using a plastic brush, I started coating the cookies, trying not to rush as I painted the inside of each cookie cup. I decided to pour the cocktails as needed. I was seriously afraid the chocolate wasn't going to hold up for very long.
All the contestants were rushing back and forth putting finishing touches on their dishes. I was almost done; I had beautiful stacks of cookies all lined up and ready to go. I was giving my cocktails another mix when Amber ran past my station, bells jingling. I saw what was about to happen a second before her hand “accidentally” caught the pan of extra white chocolate. It flew into an arc toward my cookies.
“I'mso soorrryy!” Amber said. I heard it in slow motion, and I dove in front of the stacks of cookies, sacrificing myself for the pastry shot glasses.
I was splashed from head to toe in white chocolate. But better me than the cookies. I stood there, blinking.
“So this is what you're after, Owen?” an upper-class voice scoffed. “Honestly, it's almost a cliché.”
48
Owen
Iprided myself on being a decisive person. Once I decided that I wanted something or that I was going to invest in something or develop a new technology, I didn't waffle; I committed and, more importantly, followed through.
I wanted Holly. There was no reason I could see why it wouldn't be a good idea to spend the rest of my life with her. Therefore, the only logical solution was to start shopping for engagement rings and make her my wife before New Year's.
“Geez, you really fell hard for her,” Walker said when he stepped into the elevator with me as I was taking Rudolph back upstairs to my office.
I jerked my head up. “You don't know what's going on.”
“Either Holly worked her Christmas magic, or the wicked witch of Christmas cast a spell on you, causing you to hum Christmas carols.”
“I'm not humming,” I scoffed.
