However, I’m determined to do exactly what Ryland said. I will break down her walls and reveal to her that we can be happy together, as two people in love instead ofjustbest friends. We can be both.
I peer down at her as she flashes me a questioning look, her eyebrow raised, silently asking if I’m alright. There’s understanding within her gaze, and I give her a grin, nodding my head to tell her I’m okay.
She snuggles closer into me as I wrap an arm around her waist. Once prompted, we all smile, shouting ‘Merry Christmas,’ and are blinded for a few seconds by the bright flash of a camera. We take a few photos, and once we’re finished, my dad twists his wheelchair around until he’s facing us.
“Can we chat?” he asks me.
I part my lips to reply, but we’re interrupted by my grandmother announcing that the cookies are ready for decorating and for all of us to get changed out of our sweaters. I’m grateful for the excuse to get this itchy thing off of me and to avoid the much-needed conversation for a bit longer.
“We can later,” I say, not missing the way his shoulders fall in disappointment.
Olivia grabs my hand and tugs me toward our bedroom. Once the door is shut, I reach down to tug this awful sweater off my body, butOlivia stops me.
“No wait! We have to take a selfie.” She grabs her phone and rushes to me, lifting her phone up, and snaps a few photos of us.
I make a funny face, loving when she shoves my chest lightly, laughing as she demands a good photo. Afterward, I bend down and plant a kiss to her cheek and don’t move until I hear the sound of a click. As I move back, Olivia’s head shoots up, eyes wide as she stares up at me.
I shrug my shoulders. “What? A guy is allowed to kiss his girlfriend on the cheek.”
Before she can respond, I tug the itchy material over my head and toss the ugly sweater at her. It falls to the floor, and she freezes in place, my bare chest exposed. Her expression softens into something vulnerable as she studies me, her eyes feeling like a caress.
My mouth twitches into a smirk, her eyes tracking the movement. Olivia clears her throat, averting her eyes, and turns to rush into the bathroom. “I’ll meet you out there!” she shouts over her shoulder before shutting the door behind her.
Chapter Sixteen
Olivia
“What the heck was that, Olivia?” I whisper to myself and cover my face with my hands.
I allowed myself to drink him in. I took in his face, how his brown eyes are more like the color of chocolate swirled with caramel and sprinkled with gold flakes. Above his eyes sit two, slightly too thick, dark brows. One has a little scar sitting above it, a shade paler than the rest of his skin, a reminder of a hot summer afternoon when we were diving off the dock by Ryland’s cabin, and Luke had slipped and busted his head against the wood.
Luke always seems to keep a small amount of stubble on his jawline, chin, and around his lips, but he never grows it much longer than that so I can see his one dimple that likes to make an appearance when he smiles. Then I admired his bare chest, every inch of carved muscles, the dusting of dark hair on his tanned skin.
He stood there, like a piece of art left for me to examine,flawed and rough around the edges but treasured for those little qualities, and I just stared at him. Luke is somehow perfectly imperfect, and it took my breath away.
I swear on my gingerbread-cinnamon rolls that, with the exception of my teenage years, I’ve never allowed myself to look at Luke likethat.Maybe in a my-best-friend-is-cute, unassuming sort of way, but not this sort of unnerving attraction. He looks different to me now, and I wonder how I could’ve missed these beautiful pieces of him.
I’m splashing my face with cold water for a second time. I’ve allowed this whole fake-dating thing to get under my skin, and I need a moment to build my wall back up, but I don’t get that because there's a knock on the bathroom door, and Jerrica is saying that Nonni is hollering for me.
“I’ll be right there!” I shout.
I hear Luke and Jerrica chattering as they leave the room. Once I hear the door shut, I slowly push the bathroom door open, peeking into the room to make sure I’m alone. I am, thankfully.
I tug the Christmas sweater over my head and replace it with an olive-green one that has a row of small Christmas trees that I embroidered in the center of it. I go back into the bathroom to wipe away the mascara from under my eyes and apply a fresh coat. As I fluff my hair, trying to refresh its curls, I point a finger at my reflection.
“Now listen here. You can’t catch feelings for Luke. That is not allowed. No matter how stupidly attractive he is, we can’t think about Luke that way.”
Finally, once I’m about as ready as I can be, I make my way through the house and find everyone gathering in the dining room. In front of each chair sits an empty plate, several icing options and plain sugar cookies that have been cut into Christmas-themed shapes. I inhale the scent of sugar and golden butter.
Baking has made me happy ever since I was a little girl. My grandmother taught me before she passed away when I was young, and then my mother took over, teaching me everything that she knew until I was able to take off and do things on my own. I knew at a young age that baking was what I wanted to do with my life.
I’m proud of the fact that I’ve poured everything I could into my business: my sweat, tears, and on several clumsy occasions, my blood (yes, I made sure to dispose of the bloody food). It’s my safe place, where I want to be no matter how I’m feeling, because I know it will always make me happy. That is the type of comfort I hope decorating these cookies will bring to everyone that’s here.
Luke’s eyes light up as he watches me walk into the room, and my knees betray me as they wobble with each step. His lips quirk into a grin, and my traitorous eyes focus on the hard line of his jaw and land on the full curve of his lips. How in the world had I missed that perfect curve? And now that I’ve noticed, I can’t see anything else.
My body is double-crossing me, and it’s not fair.
Luke had changed into a gray long-sleeved shirt that is tightly pulled over his broad shoulders and pulled up to his elbows, revealing his delicious forearms. His blue jeans are riding low on his hips, rolled up to hit just above his brown shoes. He looks good. Cookies-fresh-out-of-the-oven good. My-homemade-cream-cheese-frosting good.
