Ignoring the hypocritical stab of disappointment at his agreement, I keep a smile on my face and tilt my head toward the door. “Go. I’ll finish up here.”
He hesitates like there’s something he wants to say before grabbing his coat off the back of the couch. Still frowning, he shrugs it on, the shapeless bulk looking decidedly un-Jack-like. “I’ll see you soon.” He says it like a question.
“Sure.” The word comes out flatter than I meant, like it already regrets itself. “Yeah.”
Yet as soon as the latch of my apartment door clicks shut, leaving me alone with twinkle lights and the poundingof my libido that sounds an awful lot like my heart, I’m absolutely sure of two things.
One, I’m the biggest idiot in Maine for sending him home instead of to my bedroom.
And two, that I’ll be wide awake regretting it until sunrise.
HALF-BAKED
Audrey
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.
The words—on endless replay since last night’s kiss with Jack ended far too soon—are still beating against my skull harder than the Christmas carols blasting from the community center’s loudspeakers. Only now they’re accompanied by the fact that I’m flustered, frazzled, andat leasttwo gumdrops short of looking put-together.
Which is not how I wanted to show up for the gingerbread competition.
But this morning? I overslept. After spending half the night tossing and turning in bed, replaying a kiss I should’ve filed underone-and-donebut instead kept analyzing from every conceivable angle. And much to my dismay, fantasizing about how I wish the kiss would’ve ended— as in not until we were both naked and his Christmas playlist wenton repeat—didn’t do anything to cool my downtown ovens, so to speak.
The result of my overactive imagination and unhelpful lusting? Puffy eyes, bedhead barely wrestled into a braid, and a heart and mind about to emotionally and physically collapse—especially after what one of the competition judges, Eileen Burrows, just told me.
“I’m sorry, what?” I blink at her as she smiles at me from behind the sign-in table, pen poised like she’s orchestrating a wedding rather than a bake-off.
“I could’ve sworn I told you, dear.” She frowns, but Iswearthere’s mischief in her eyes.
Taking a deep breath, I glance down the row of tables set up for the showdown, each one loaded with gingerbread slabs, piping bags, and more gumdrops than a dentist’s worst nightmare. Every team is neatly paired off—husbands and wives, siblings, parent-and-kid duos. All bright-eyed, sugar-hyped, and grinning like this is the most fun they’ll have all season.
Everyone except… me.
Because no. Eileen most definitely did not tell me about the partner requirement. But arguing with Eileen Burrows is like arguing with Santa Claus—even if you win, you lose. So instead of protesting, I paste on a polite smile, hoping it hides the flush creeping up my neck. “Must’ve slipped my mind.”
Eileen, cheeks rosy and Christmas tree brooch winking under the fluorescent lights, taps her pen on the clipboard. “I thought that might be the case when I was double-checking the sign-ups this morning.” She beams and makesa dramatic flourish next to my name. “So I arranged a partner for you.”
My stomach sinks. “A… partner?” I squint hard, trying to read her looping scrawl upside down.
“Mm-hm.” Eileen extends her arm, covering the clipboard, and pats my hand as though she’s bestowing a blessing from the love gods themselves. “Such a perfect fit, you’ll see.”
And right on cue, a familiar voice rumbles behind me.
“Sorry I’m late.”
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.
I freeze. My spine locks up, my braid feels too tight, and I’m ninety-nine percent sure the heat flooding my cheeks could melt my entire gumdrop stash.
Slowly, I turn.
And there he is. Jack Lourd in a Henley that clings to his chest in ways no fabric has a right to, dark stubble shadowing the jaw I’d spent half the night imagining beneath my lips. He looks maddeningly awake, maddeningly put together, and not at all like a man who should have the power to unravel me in front of half the town.
My oh-my-gods multiply.
Eileen clasps her hands together like a fairy godmother who’s just orchestrated the ball. “Perfect,” she announces to no one in particular—except the hundred or so Hideaway residents already sneaking glances our way.
Perfect?
