The family must have a private chef, because there are ingredients for just about everything in the world. Someone who enjoys cooking spends time in this kitchen, and I don’t think the Hartwells are ever home long enough to do so. Everything is labeled and well placed, and I find what I need quickly. Except for the real sugar.
Only when I’m mixing the batter do I realize what I’ve made.
I freeze with my hand on the piping bag ready to fill it. These were the only good parts of Christmas at our house. The only tradition we ever had, started by my grandmother and continued by me after her death. Dozens of memories war up, some bad, some not so bad. My parents were always at work, even on Christmas. Criminals never take a break.
I fill the bag, convincing myself it’s time to rewrite the bad memories with some good. Then I cut the fruit while the oil heats to the correct temperature.
Almost like magic, two sleepy-eyed girls emerge the second I plate the first meal.
“Merry Christmas, ladies.”
“What’s that smell?” Arabella leans over the counter and pushes her disheveled braids away from her face to get a better look.
“Funnel cake for breakfast?” Maya asks, obvious judgment written on her arched brow.
I push the plate to Bella and point the tongs at Maya. “If you complain, you don’t get any.”
She bites her lip, throwing both hands to the sky. “No complaints here,” she says, but then adds a few more pieces of fruit to Arabella’s plate. The little girl pushes them away with her fork then stabs the funnel cake, bringing the entire thing to her mouth to take a bite, dripping fruit sauce and the monk fruit sweetener—the closest thing I could find to powdered sugar—all over the counter and her chin.
“This is the best food in the whole world!” she says around a mouthful.
“It can’t be that good,” Maya says jokingly as she takes the plate I just loaded for her.
But one bite in, and she moans with delight. “How did you make this with all the healthy crap?”
“I got creative.” I shrug, watching out of the corner of my eye as she takes another bite, larger and messier than the last. She attempts to hide the white powder on her chin, but I see it. I’m all too aware of her.
Arabella finishes her food and jumps down from the counter, running to the Christmas festival in the living room. The bounce house immediately inflates, and water splashes. I swear that girl can be in two places at once when it comes to making a mess.
I cook myself a funnel cake, adding some chocolate sauce I made to top it off. I may have found someone’s secret stash of chocolate in the wheat bin.
Maya rounds the counter with a now-empty plate and sees what I’m hiding.
“Hey, why didn’t I get chocolate?” she asks, an almost flirtatious tone to her voice.
“You can’t have that much sugar in the morning.” I smirk, and in a moment of utter humiliation, I boop her on the nose. Like a child.
Shock, then amusement dances in her eyes, entrancing me. She lifts her fork, cutting a bite of my funnel cake. I watch her slowly raise it to her lips, and then she blows.
A cloud of monk fruit sweetener hits my face. I pull back, rubbing my eyes. “Do you intend to start a war?”
“We're already in one. What’s one more?”
I grab the bag of monk fruit sweetener and shake.
Maya screams as the white dust coats her hair.
“I win.”
Wrong thing to say. The beauty in front of me grabs the bottle of strawberry syrup and squeezes.
It pelts me square in the chest.
I look at my, once again, ruined shirt, then back up at her. “Be honest, has all of this fighting been an elaborate ruse to get me to take my shirt off?”
Red splotches appear on her cheeks, and she sprays me again. “No!”
“All you have to do is ask.” My voice drops to a rough timbre. “We aren’t kids anymore, Perry.”
