Page 43 of Naughty-ish

“You’re kind of overdressed for a bag of sugar,” Mitch comments.

“Grabbed the closest pair of shoes and my long coat.” I brush past him because he doesn’t deserve an explanation and open my front door. “Okay, guys. Say bye to Dad.”

“Bye, Dad,” they say in unison and then each take a turn hugging him.

“Christmas morning,” Mitch confirms once more, eyeing me as I stand in my entryway, door open but not inviting him in. He takes in the high heels I haven’t worn in years. My bare legs are pebbled from the cold. And my long coat hits my kneecaps and hints I’m not wearing much else beneath it. Once upon a time, he’d give me a look after pleasantly inspecting me and I’d easily fall for it.

Never again, buddy.

“Christmas morning,” I confirm, my tone sharp. “Bye, Mitch.”

Once I close the door, I fall against the barrier and let out an exasperated chuckle. My phone pings in my pocket.

What time should I be over to make cookies?

I bite my lip, fight the giddy bubbles in my throat, but I can’t help the smile warming my cheeks.

Seems Santa has a helper and he’s willing to bake with me.

+ + +

Nick arrives an hour later with a to-go mug of coffee for him, and hot chocolate for me. Plus, another handful of greenery.

“Is that a sprig of holly?” The uniquely shaped leaf is the quintessential Christmas decoration, complete with a few red berries.

“Yes, it is.” He smiles before handing over the cluster. He’s so sweet and original.

When we enter my kitchen, he claps his hands and addresses the kids coloring at the table. “What kind of cookies are we making?”

“I don’t even know if I have all the ingredients for any recipe.” I dig my fingers into my freshly washed hair and hold it behind my neck.

“What do you typically make?”

Despite the question, I take a moment to appreciate this man standing in my kitchen, acting as if baking Christmas cookies isn’t something special, when it’s a once-a-year occasion.

“Peanut butter blossoms. Russian tea cakes. Sometimes holly wreaths. The ones with corn flakes and red-hot candies.” I definitely don’t have corn flakes or red hots.

“Don’t forget peppermint ones,” Nash says from his place at the kitchen table. He said he didn’t eat breakfast so a bowl of dry cereal rests beside his coloring sheet.

“What are peppermint ones?”

“Oh. I kind of invented those myself. It’s just sugar cookies with peppermint sticks crushed up and added into the mix. Plus, a splash of peppermint extract.”

Nick’s brows lift. “Sounds amazing.”

“They’re sooooo good,” Nash agrees, speaking while chewing.

“And sugar cookies,” Eloise adds. “Do we still have the cut-outs?” She’s been quiet since returning from her father’s place and I haven’t had a minute to address if something happened while she was gone.

Why would we not have the cookie cutters? Mitch got the house in our divorce. I got the holiday cookie cutters. I hold my sarcasm and answer her. “Of course, I still have them.”

A weak smile forms on her little mouth. My brows pinch and I glance at Nick who has been watching her as well. His questioning eyes meet mine, but I don’t have an explanation.

“Okay. Who’s ready for cookie making?” Nick starts opening my cabinets, hunting for ingredients without an official recipe in hand.

“I might need to go to the store.” I’m certain I don’t have half the things we’ll need.

“No worries,” Nick says, rummaging through my cupboard. “Whatever you don’t have, I might have at my place.”