My phone pings, bringing me back to reality, and I see that it’s a message from Olivia.
Liv:
I might have finally perfected the recipe on my gingerbread-latte cookies.
*Photo of her smiling with a tray of cookies*
When Olivia smiles, it’s like her joy can’t be contained. It pours out of her, radiant and effortless. It’s not just beautiful; it’s healing, like a balm to the raw places I keep hidden.Go to her, my heart whispers, aching to close the space between us, but then my doubts begin to stir.
She’s light—brilliant, steady, warm. And I’m just the aftermathof too many storms. Cracked in ways no one can see. What if being near me dims her light? What if I pull her into the darkness I haven’t been able to escape?
She deserves better than the wreckage of a man I’ve become.
It’s why I ignored her yesterday. Why I kept my distance. Because the dark place I was in would only strangle out the positivity she carries. She’s the type of woman who needs room to blossom, to reach as high as she can to soak in as much light as she can get.
Lately, I’ve watched her start to wilt with all her failed attempts at dating. I’d only cause her to wilt even more.
Even so, I’m too weak to stay away from her. Because as she sends me another photo of her with Buttercream, remembering how she said he wasours, my heart takes over and drives me toward her house. I park my car in her driveway, behind her bright-yellow car, and stay frozen in my seat.
I try to talk myself out of going inside, convincing my heart that she’s better off without me crowding up her tiny home with the gloomy clouds that always seem to follow me. However, I remind myself that it's okay because Olivia knows everything. All of my nightmares. All of my secrets. All except for one.
One that has haunted me since the night of our high school graduation party.
Chapter Six
Olivia
By the smells floating around inside my home, you’d think I lived in a gingerbread house. I wouldn’t be mad about it either. Actually, that’s now my ultimate dream in life: to live in a gingerbread house with a delicious gingerbread husband and cute little gingerbread kids with tiny gumdrop buttons… Okay, I might have taken this thought a little too far.
I bake in a bit of a chaotic manner. I have my music blasting. Today, it’s my joyful mix, and as my new favorite Christian R&B artist, Yung Kriss,is singing “All My Love,” my hips sway to the beat. I have a bowl of gingerbread cookie dough in the crook of my arm, and my hand is aching from the constant stirring I've been doing for the last three hours.
I welcome the ache. It reminds me how lucky I am to have a career I truly love. The thought of patting and folding together dough for fresh scones, rolling sticky cookie dough with my hands, or cutting decorative scores into a loaf of bread is comforting. It eases all the tension built up around me, and Ilook forward to losing myself each day in spices, botanicals, and smudges of flour drying on my skin.
As I sing along to the song, feeling the ends of the ribbon in my hair touching my shoulders as I sway, I set down the bowl and begin drizzling my homemade icing over the batch of cookies that’s finished cooling. I smile to myself when I mess up the first cookie, setting it aside to enjoy later, before diving back in and nearly getting the second one perfect. I’m so lost in the zone that I jump when Luke suddenly appears in front of me, completely caught off guard by his silent entrance.
My hands betray me as I mess up another cookie. I quickly turn down the music, trying to steady myself.
“Hey!” I clutch my chest, my heart racing. “You scared me.”
“Sorry,” Luke mumbles, shuffling into the room.
I look up and notice how Luke’s shoulders are held low, tense, like he’s seen something horrible, and I wouldn’t doubt it with his line of work. He has dark bags under his eyes, giving away that he’s not been sleeping well. Luke is rarely solemn, but he has been more and more over the last few days. All I want to do is cheer him up.
I notice the gray sweatpants he’s wearing. Not black or white or blue or whatever color he usually owns. They’regray,and most women have the same mental response as I do when it comes to a man wearing gray sweatpants, especially a man who looks amazing in them. These types of thoughts aren’t new to me; I’ve had them popping in and out of my mind for years now, and I make sure to shut them downevery single time. Letting my mind go there is not an option.
“I messed up on a few cookies, and I could use a second taste tester.” I avert my eyes from Luke’s sweatpants and give him an encouraging smile—the best I can muster.
I turn away from him, attempting to ignore the heat on my skin in the places I catch his eyes lingering.Get a grip on yourself, Olivia! No more ginger cookies for you! They’re messing with your head.
“Did you have a good day?” I ask, grabbing the bowl of dough to start rolling out a second batch of cookies.
I see Luke out of the corner of my eye moving toward my discarded cookies. He exhales loudly. I twist around, crossing my arms, and stare at him. I will keep staring until he gives in and tells me what’s bothering him.
“I’m assuming that’s a no.” I turn around and begin to pat down some squishy dough onto a pan without looking away from him. “Want to talk about it?”
“Do I have a choice?” He cocks a brow at me.
I shrug, breaking eye contact so I can place another cookie onto the pan. “I mean, you kind of owe me for the cookies you’re about to eat.”
