Page 51 of Cooped Up for Christmas

I found the stupid recipe and made the stupid crème Anglaise, and baked the quiche and tossed the fruit salad and whatever else was on the list. And we served it to the guests and they loved it and breakfast was awesome.

The whole time, all I could think about was getting close to Coop again. Soon.

Then it hit me, hard and fast, like a freaking anvil—a really difficult realization.

I wanted to spend time with him more than I wanted to work.

How had that happened?

I’d never wanted to do anything more than my work. I loved it. Every minute.

But now…

When had my work become…an annoyance? Something that was in my way?

I was all about my job. All. About it. And happily so. Had been for years.

What was this now, rumbling near the region of my heart?

An ache?

A dream?

A long-buried hope?

I wanted to spend time with him more than I wanted to work.

No one had ever done that to me before.

Dear God, let it be curable.

But…could you imagine a Christmas like this, for us? The two of us, all cooped up in a cabin together? With fantastic smells wafting through the house, and the laughter of friends and family twining with Christmas carols from the radio?

Because the cabin in my fantasy is in the middle of nowhere and doesn’t get cell service?

Can you imagine being utterly unplugged? Can you imagine going to the toilet without your radio?

Forget that. Can you imagine not working on Christmas?

What would that be like?

It had been unthinkable to me for years. In my line of work, it was a given. Everyone worked Christmas, and quit your whining. Even at my level, there were work parties and real parties and drop-bys galore. I’d always worked Christmas. I had convinced myself I didn’t care.

But, now? Now that shell was starting to crack. Did I really like working at Christmas?

No!

I would really rather be curled up before a fire with Coop in that magical lodge that didn’t have any internet but still managed to have electricity, hot water, and candles. A lot of candles. Yeah, and a claw-footed tub. Big enough for two.

“You know,” Carmella said in a loud whisper, jarring me from my fantasy. “I think this breakfast was even better than yesterday. Compliments to the chef!” Everyone around the table nodded and agreed.

The various chefs around the room exchanged grins.

Whit meaningfully unbuckled his belt—apparently a very high compliment—judging from the waggling of his brows. “I didn’t think anything could have been better than yesterday. But then, y’all have been just awesome. You have knocked this trip out of the park.”

I’m sure I blushed. “Thank you so much. We appreciate that. But, as you know, it is our pleasure to be here with you and share this special time. We’re all very happy for you. Congratulations.” That’s it. Turn the praise right back on him.

It was his turn to blush, thank you very much, and when he walked away, he walked away from that table feeling like a king. Because that is what I do to men…when I want them to tip well. Or do the laundry. Or bring me a sandwich.