Chapter 31

CHAPTER 31

HUDSON

I pull the gingerbread cookie dough from the fridge. I've made enough to last until January. A portion is earmarked for the fierce competition that takes place this weekend. We'll compete against some of Merryville's most notorious cheaters, the Purple Hairs. They are cunning and relentless, doing whatever they can to secure a spot in the Hall of Fame and be crowned as the Cookie Queen or King.

Last night, I promised Emma I'd join her team. Tonight, we're doing a test run.

Together, we’ll win this contest and conquer whatever life throws our way.

This morning, I woke up hours earlier than usual, driven by a restless energy that's haunted me since I saw Meredith again. I regret giving her any part of myself, and I was furious to learn she's staying in town with her aunt until our court hearing in January. That means six long weeks of me constantly glancing over my shoulder, checking to confirm she’s not lurking in the shadows, especially when I’m with Colby.

I refuse to let that Grinch bitch steal Christmas.

While the house was still asleep, I mixed away my worries and frustrations, pouring every ounce of care and attention into the preparation. Mawmaw always promised I’d want to bake with the love of my life and often spoke about how truly special sharing our family recipe is—like a family heirloom passed down through generations, cherished and revered.

I've only shared the experience of making these cookies with my son. Each memory is tinged with the joyous chaos of a messy kitchen and the innocent laughter that fills the air, an echo of sweetness that reminds me of how lucky I am. And soon, those moments will expand to include Emma.

The thought brings me happiness, filling me with warmth as I imagine the laughter and mess we'll create together—flour dust swirling like fairy dust around us, our hands sticky with dough while we whimsically cut out each cookie.

I look around the dark house, the shadows stretching across the walls like whispers of the past, secrets held tight in every corner. The only lights on are in the kitchen, softly illuminating the space with a warm glow, and the twinkling Christmas tree stands sentinel, radiating a gentle luminosity that dances across the room.

My eyes drift up to the delicate angel perched at the top of the tree, a porcelain figure that seems to embody all the hopes and dreams I've tucked away. I can't help but notice how much it resembles Emma, with her soft features and radiant spirit—a beacon of light in the reflection of my life.

As if I summoned her, Emma moves gracefully down the stairs, floating toward me like she was plucked from my dreams. I watch every quiet step she takes, how she navigates the wooden boards that creak just a bit too loudly in the hush of the night. She’s so breathtakingly gorgeous that she steals my breath away, leaving my heart racing and my thoughts scattered like fallen leaves in the crisp autumn air.

When she glances in my direction, she grins, and I return the gesture. Her bright, shining eyes lock onto mine, sparking a silent question deep inside me: can I be the man who makes her happy?

“He's asleep,” she whispers, moving closer toward me. “I made sure.”

She pauses, hooking her finger with mine, her soft skin sending tiny electric shocks through me. “Are you okay?”

“I am, now,” I say, her simple touch igniting a flutter within me. It's not like anything I've ever felt with anyone before. Every second of her closeness is charged with unspoken possibilities.

“Okay,” she replies, her gaze shifting to the counter where the mounds of dough sit, waiting to be brought to life. A smile spreads across her face, deepening the warmth in her kind eyes with a sense of adventure. “Teach me. Show me what it's like to bake for fun for once.”

An overwhelming rush of joy floods through me, and I can't help but wonder if this is the very sensation Mawmaw had spoken of. It’s a beautiful blend of happiness swirling around us like a festive snowstorm. The feeling fills the kitchen and mixes with the sweet scent of sugar and flour.

“You have goose bumps,” Emma observes, her attention caught by the tiny eruptions of sensations that capture me.

“You do that to me,” I admit in a hushed tone, the heat of the moment urging me forward. Her finger trails across my skin, a gentle caress that ignites an overwhelming urge to kiss her.

So I do.

Her eyes flutter closed, and my fingers caress the outside of her cheek, feeling her smooth skin beneath my fingertips. A soft, unexpected moan escapes her lips, and I can’t help but smile; a light inside my heart glows, a soft flicker in the dark.

“What was that for?” she asks her voice a soft melody that dances between us.

“I wanted to make sure you were real.”

“Am I?” she whispers, her breath barely a wisp in the space between us.

“Fuck, I hope so. Because if this is a dream, I never want to wake up.”

With a teasing pinch, she giggles—a sound that seems to brighten the room even more. “You're living it with me this Christmas.”

“Do you want my answer now?” I inquire, curiosity dancing in my eyes.

She shakes her head; the tree lights reflect in her eyes like shimmering stars. “New Year's Eve.”

“Why're you so damn stubborn?” I playfully ask, captivated by her.

“I'm adamant,” she states, pausing as if weighing the decision to share her next thoughts. The air thickens with anticipation. “When I was a little girl, my mother told me the man I was meant to be with for the rest of my life would kiss me as the ball dropped in Times Square at midnight. We used to laugh about it, and she said she could envision it as clear as day.” Emma’s voice softens, and her eyes reflect the distant memories. “For as long as I've been alive, no one has ever kissed me at midnight as the ball dropped. The little girl in me longs to live out my mother's fairy tale. I want to feel that magic so she remains a part of that special moment for me somehow.”

A few tears fall, catching the soft light and glistening like diamonds on her cheeks. I immediately move forward, kissing them away, feeling the weight of her unfulfilled dreams settle heavily in the space between us.

“That's why I want your answer then. We have weeks until that moment arrives, and skeletons are falling from closets. You can still change your mind.”

I move closer, my fingers brushing lightly against the soft skin of her neck, the warmth that radiates between us drawing me in deeper as I lose myself in the depths of her gaze. It feels as though we're suspended in time—a fragile bubble surrounds us, holding us in place. “You're sure I'm still what you want?”

She looks at me, eyes glistening with so much care and passion that I don’t need her words. It's as if I can hear her heart beating just for me—a gentle thrum that resonates in the silence between us.

“Never doubt the way I feel about you.”

Our lips crash together, a collision of need and want.

“If we don't stop, we'll never get these cookies baked,” I say playfully, pulling away to gather my thoughts and preheat the oven. The comforting scent of the dough warms my spirit as I grab the light-colored baking sheets and the parchment paper. I set them out on the countertop.

“Choose the shape of the cookies,” I offer, gesturing towards the drawer brimming with an array of metal cookie cutters I've collected over the years.

Emma swings it open and digs around, and the metal clanks together. Eventually, she pulls one out with a mischievous grin. “This is the one.”

I glance over at her, raising a brow in playful protest. “We're not making dick cookies.”

She bursts into laughter, her delight bright and infectious. “Come on, at least a few! Why do you even have this?”

A flood of memories washes over me.

“One time, Lucas had the flu, so I baked him cookies to cheer him up,” I admit as the silly recollection unfolds in my mind.

“Did it work?” she asks, continuing her search.

“He enjoyed the hell out of it,” I reply, laughing like it was yesterday. “He sent me tons of pictures of him with the dick cookies in his mouth. It cheered me up too.”

“You're a great big brother,” Emma comments, her eyes sparkling with warmth. “And dad.”

“Eventually, husband,” I say, and she chews on her bottom lip as she returns to me, holding a traditional gingerbread cutter. She bends down and smells the dough.

“Mm. We're winning this.” A flicker of competitiveness ignites behind her eyes, gleaming like a hidden fire ready to blaze.

I take a step back, my heart racing. “You're serious.”

She smirks, an expression that holds pure determination. “When I want something, I get it.”

“Fuck,” I growl, a mix of admiration stirs within me. “Let's win this, then. Do you want them soft or hard?”

Her eyes trail down my chest, my stomach, and to my cock that's ready to play.

“Hard, but if we're talking about cookies soft.”

I try to stay focused, but she's making it hard . Literally. I adjust myself and clear my throat. “For a softer cookie, we'll keep them thicker and bake them for less time.”

I sprinkle flour on the counter, the white powder settles like fresh snow. Suddenly, she flicks some at me, a playful challenge dancing in her eyes.

“Don't start no shit, won't be no shit,” I tell her, an amused grin creeping onto my face as I return the favor.

She happily helps me unwrap the dough, its coolness a sharp contrast to the warmth building between us. I plop two mounds in front of us. The sight of the soft, buttery mass makes my mouth water. They're a holiday tradition.

I hand her a rolling pin, while I take the kid-sized one that Colby uses during our baking sessions.

“That thing looks miniature in your hands,” she quips, and I take a mental snapshot of how pretty she looks at this moment. She's like the sunlight breaking through clouds.

“What?”

“You're gorgeous,” I mutter, taking a few more seconds to drink her in, her laughter ringing like music to my ears. “Now get to rollin' and use those muscles.”

“Is that what you tell Colby?”

“Exactly,” I reply, thinking about his little hands working the dough. “And he rawrs every time afterward.”

Emma slams the rolling pin onto the mound, and with a fluidity that suggests she's done this a million times, she gets to work. I turn on some holiday music, letting the warm melodies fill the kitchen and hug us in a cozy ambiance.

The smile that settles on my face might be permanent as the sweet aroma of spices and sugar begins to bind us together, swirling around us. I show her the correct thickness for the dough, and she matches mine with ease, our movements synchronizing like a well-rehearsed dance.

When the dough is flat, I grab the cutter and hand it to her, my heart swelling with anticipation. “Go ahead.”

She presses out the shapes, each gingerbread figure taking form with her careful touches. “Can't forget the dicks,” she tells me, her brows raised in jest as she cuts out the cock and balls.

“You're addicting,” I say.

“You are too.”

We work diligently, not allowing any dough to go to waste. The extra scraps get rolled out again, our laughter mingling with the clatter of rolling pins.

There are too many stolen glances and unspoken words, an electric tension simmering between us as we dance around one another in the kitchen, moving like we’ve practiced this choreography countless times.

I slide the full trays inside the oven, the warmth rushes us. Emma grabs a mixing bowl and measuring cups, her excitement bubbling over.

“What's all this?”

“We're making gingerbread man sandwiches with my favorite vanilla cream cheese frosting. I stumbled across it a long time ago, and if your cookies are as orgasmic as my sister says, well...we win.”

I tilt my head at her, a knowing smile spreading across my face. “It's always been my dream to win this.”

“That trophy is ours, babe,” Emma declares, her determination shimmering in her eyes as she softens the butter and cream cheese. “Can you sift the powdered sugar, please?”

“Yes, Chef,” I reply, winking at her as she lifts the top of the stand mixer. She slowly adds the ingredients, turning the mixer on, the rhythmic whir filling the air. Not rushing, she carefully incorporates everything, dashing in this and splashing in that, her instincts guiding her rather than precise measurements. It's what Mawmaw calls baking with love.

When it's smooth, she swipes her finger inside the bowl, her eyes sparkling.

“Want to taste it?” she asks as the soft notes of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” plays overhead. It sets the mood perfectly.

I nod, pulling her hand to my mouth, sucking the sweet, rich icing off her finger. The taste is a mini explosion of flavor. Her breath catches in her throat, her eyes full of desire.

“Fuck, tastes so good,” I growl, my voice a low rumble that vibrates through the space between us.

“Look what you did to me,” she whispers, glancing down at her arm, where goose bumps cover her skin along with the remnants of flour.

“I hope it never fades away,” I say, pulling her into me, and we slowly sway barefoot in the kitchen—a dance that feels both intimate and carefree. The soft rhythm of the moment pulls us closer as I spin her around, joy stretches between us.

“Are you happy?” she asks.

“Yes,” I admit, just as Frank Sinatra’s smooth voice flows through the air, crooning about shining stars and boughs. The last notes of the song fade away, and we step apart, the moment brief yet electric. Emma's cheeks flush a vibrant pink, and she takes a cautious step back, her gaze lowered.

“You make me want to do very bad things to you,” she adds, a mischievous edge to her voice.

“Mm. Like what?” A playful smirk dances on my lips.

Before she can respond, the oven dings, slicing through the moment. I quickly grab a mitt and slide the trays onto the top of the oven. Years of practice have taught me to let the cookies rest for about two minutes before transferring them to the cooling rack—patience yields the best results.

Emma leans against the counter, her eyes fixed on me, animated by the infectious cheer of “Jingle Bells” playing. A moment later, she opens the liquor cabinet and retrieves a bottle of whiskey, her movements fluid and confident.

“Oh, we're going there tonight?” I raise an eyebrow, a playful challenge in my tone.

She smirks. “Yes, the icing is made. Now we just have to wait for those cookies to cool.”

“Thirty minutes,” I remind her, a countdown hanging in the air.

Unfazed, she uncaps the bottle and swallows down two big gulps, the whiskey gliding down her throat. She shakes it off, her cheeks flushing a deeper shade of pink. I take a generous swig, the burn both painful and welcoming. I anticipate the calm it brings.

Emma carefully places the cookies on the wire racks, then takes my hand, leading me to the living room.

The tree lights the space, casting a yellow glow around us, while the cheerful holiday music floats lightly in the background.

“I found out where Meredith is staying,” I say, the words thick with unease.

She climbs onto my lap, straddling me. Her weight on me is both grounding and intoxicating.

“I don't want to talk about her,” she whispers against my lips. “I can see the stress etched on your face. I want to take your mind away from it all, Hudson.”

I lean back, surrendering to her allure, the whiskey swims blissfully through my system. Emma unbuttons her shirt, revealing her beautiful breasts. I lean forward, capturing one peaked nipple in my mouth, then tease the other. She threads her fingers through my hair, the sensation exhilarating and desperate.

“Everything will work out. I promise,” she says, her body rocking against me. My body responds instantly, the heat between us undeniable. Her lips trail along my neck, and she places soft kisses just below my ear before nibbling at my lobe.

“I wish I could describe how you make me feel.” Her breathless whispers ignite that familiar buzzing only she can evoke in me, and it spreads through my body like wildfire.

With tender care, I slip her shirt off her shoulders, my fingers trailing down her spine, savoring the feel of her skin beneath my touch.

Her mouth meets mine, and our tongues dance in perfect harmony. The sweet scent of her skin captures me, clouding my thoughts, making every worry and stress fade away. When I look up into her eyes, it's like I can see the world differently.

“I ache for you, Hudson,” she gasps, rocking against me. I lay her down on the couch, craving her as much as she craves me. Emma wiggles out of her shorts, the fabric slipping to the floor, exposing her body to me in the dim light. I slide off my joggers, the air between us electric.

I say her name so softly as I slide inside her, a whisper filled with longing. With my forehead pressed against hers, she adjusts to me, and I savor the softness of her body below mine. Our kisses and movements grow more intense, a dance of lips and tongues as I drive deeper. There is no rushing or urgency; I want to spend every precious second with her.

The sound of her breathless moans and hushed whispers nearly drives me to the edge. And nothing matters as we make love by the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree.

Nothing but us.