Chapter Ten

Mark

“ I ’m not sure if I have the ingredients,” I warn her, already dreading the mess this is going to create.

She’s already opening cabinets and peering inside. “I can work with what you have,” she says, pulling out a bunch of stuff I didn’t even know I had.

“Can you grab the bowl?” she asks, and I lift my brows.

“I’m included in this now?”

She turns her head and bats her eyelashes, and I let out a hard breath, completely and utter putty in her hands. “Fine,” I grumble, grabbing the large mixing bowl and handing it to her.

Lifting my hand, I rub at my chin, watching as she starts to mix the ingredients together, folding the batter carefully, but I note that she isn’t following a recipe. “You ever do this before, Bambi?”

“Yeah,” she says with a light laugh that eases something in me. “All the time,” she says, squinting at the bowl as she pours the sugar in without using a scale. “Why? Do you think they’ll be bad?” she asks, giving me a look .

I lift my shoulder. “I mean, the fact that you didn’t even think of looking for a recipe kind of scares me,” I admit.

She shakes her head, her lips pressed together in an amused smile. “Oh, Mark, you live too much by the rules,” she teases, nudging me with her elbow.

“They’re there for a reason.”

“To break them,” she replies.

“Definitely not,” I retort, shaking my head.

She chuckles, turning her attention back to the bowl. “I beg to differ,” she says, and I watch as she mixes the ingredients together, glancing at me for a second. “I memorized the recipe,” she admits.

That relaxes me a little, knowing she isn’t just throwing ingredients in at random. “You make them that often?” I ask.

“Not really,” she admits, with a curt shake of her head. “I don’t get the chance to bake living at Olivia’s. But my mom used to make them a lot,” she says, her voice softening.

“Oh?” I ask, glancing at the side of her face where I can see her expression fall.

“We used to make them every year,” she says, staring at the bowl, her gaze distant as if she’s lost in the memory.

I feel a tug at my chest and clear my throat. “And you’re sure you memorized it correctly?” I tease, wanting the smile back on her face. “It’s looking… interesting. ”

She snaps out of it, her lips curling into a warm smile as she lets out a soft chuckle. “Trust me, Mark. You’ll be begging me to make them again,” she says confidently.

A low grunt leaves my lips. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” I reply, though as the smell of the vanilla and butter enters my nostrils, I start to think she might be right.

“You’re going to eat your words,” she teases, her grin stretching from ear to ear.

“I’m going to eat something. Not sure if it’ll be edible.”

She starts to pour the flour into the bowl with a laugh, and starts to mix together the dough. “I used to make cookies all the time when I was in foster care,” she admits, her voice low, catching me off guard.

My brows shoot up in surprise, and I swallow down the rock lodged in my throat. “You were in care?” I ask, my voice softening.

“Yeah,” she says with a soft smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Funnel Cakes was in there with me actually, but um… she got adopted,” Holly says, her voice trailing off as she focuses on the mixing bowl in front of her.

“And you?” I ask, dreading the answer.

My eyes dip to her slender throat as she swallows hard. “I aged out,” she says.

I gulp, feeling a deep, gnawing sadness for her. “I’m so fucking sorry, Bambi.”

“It’s okay,” she says with a smile I can tell is forced. “I’m so happy Olivia found a family, and we kept in touch throughout the years. We even went to college together, where she met her husband, and now is having a child.” She lets out a hard breath, her eyes fluttering closed for a second. “I’m so happy for her. I am, it’s just…”

“You wish you would have had the same.” I finish for her, the sadness swimming in her eyes, breaking my heart.

She nods slowly, her voice catching as she continues. “My parents were amazing, and it wasn’t my fault that they died. But no one seemed to want me,” she says with a slight croak in her throat. “I went from home to home, with nothing but a pink Barbie backpack that I got the Christmas they died.” She shakes her head, and I notice a tear dripping down her cheek. “I lost everything,” she says. “Even the backpack years later.”

How could anyone not want her? The thought claws at my insides, and I try to swallow down the anger, but it’s impossible. The thought of her never having a family again makes me fucking angry. Why did I get one? She would have deserved it so much more than me. I was a waste. But she is… Holly is…

I’m sprung out of my thoughts when I feel something land on my face, and I slowly blink down at Holly, who’s grinning up at me with her hand full of flour.

I slowly wipe the flour off my face and narrow my eyes down at her. “You’re dead.”

She yelps, grabbing the bowl as protection and attempts to move away from me. I reach into the flour bag and grab a handful of flour, ready to throw it right back at her .

“Not the cookies,” she begs, laughing as she dodges out of the way.

“You started this,” I warn her, throwing more flour at her, feeling the corner of my lips tug when it lands on her hair, earning another yelp from her.

“Fine. Fine, I’ll stop,” she concedes, holding the bowl in front of her face. She pokes her head out, seeing if it’s safe, and when she sees I’m standing with my arms crossed, she puts the bowl back onto the counter and lets out a hard breath. “You’re evil.”

I arch a brow, grabbing a tea towel before making my way over to her. “Says the woman who invaded my kitchen and threw flour at my head,” I say, slowly wiping away the flour covering her hair.

I can’t help but admit how much I enjoyed it. This day is usually one of the worst ones in the year, but somehow, Holly came and made me forget. She brightened up the day and stopped me from sinking into the darkness of my thoughts.

I stare down at her, seeing those big, brown eyes locked on mine, and I feel something tug at my chest. Holly brings the light with her, and I don’t know what I’m going to do once she finds the love of her life and leaves.

I realize my hand is frozen on her hair when she clears her throat and takes a step back. “The cookies,” she says, gesturing toward the bowl. “We need to bake them.”

“Right,” I reply curtly.

I roll my sleeves up and copy her movements, grabbing some dough and rolling it into a ball before placing it on a baking tray, trying my fucking hardest to avoid looking at her. I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking even being as near to her as I was.

I just… I forgot. I forgot what it was like to enjoy the presence of a woman, to feel this lightness in my chest. I forgot, and Holly is a constant reminder of it.

Once the cookies are in the oven, I busy myself with washing up the dishes until the oven dings a few minutes later.

Holly grabs an oven glove and takes the cookies out, the smell of warm, sweet chocolate filling my kitchen. Jesus. I haven’t smelled something like that in a long time around here.

Turning the faucet off, I place the tea towel back on the rack and turn to see the cookies. “Fuck, they look good,” I admit, eyeing them with surprise as I reach out to grab one.

But Holly slaps my hand away before I can do just that. “Not yet,” she says.

My eyes thin. “You promised me a cookie,” I remind her.

She laughs, bright and light, and I love the sound of it way too much. “They’re too hot right now,” she says. “You need to have some patience.”

“I don’t have any of that,” I grumble.

“Well, you’re going to have to learn to, Mark,” she says, her voice soft as she takes off her oven gloves.

My jaw tightens. I have a feeling I’d do anything she asked me to. Even if I didn’t like it.

After an eternity, Holly finally deems them cool enough and I grab one, taking a large bite. I might have doubted her skills for a second there, but she proved me so wrong. The taste is perfect. Just the right amount of sweetness, and it’s still chewy in the middle. “Fuck, these are good,” I admit, my mouth full as I take another bite.

“I told you,” she says, a smug smile on her lips.

Murray comes trotting into the kitchen, and Holly kneels down to his level.

“Hi, buddy,” she says. “You want a cookie?”

“He can’t have chocolate,” I remind her, but Holly offers me a smile.

“I made him one without any chocolate,” she says, grabbing a tiny cookie the size of a dime before she drops back down and hands him the cookie, letting out soft little laughs as she rubs his stomach and kisses the tops of his head.

And for the first time in fucking forever, I feel a hint of a smile caress my lips.

“You see?” she says, looking at me with those big, hopeful eyes. “Christmas isn’t so bad.”

Yeah. Maybe not.