Page 77 of Elf-ish

“I’ll help you,” I say, placing my hand on his forearm, finding his skin no longer so cold but warm beneath my hand. Stepping in front of him, I take the dough from his hands.

“First, you need flour.” I point to the giant container and watch as Jude dumps an exorbitant amount on the plastic tablecloth, noticing that Christmas did the same thing.

“Next, you spread it.” There’s no reason for my voice to drop, but I take Jude’s hand and place it right in the flour, forcing the downy whiteness to spread. When he picks up his hand, he stares at the powder still on his palm.

“Okay, now we drop the dough in the flour and roll it.” I lean forward, stretching over the table for a rolling pin. Bringing it closer to me, I take Jude’s powdered hand, wrap it around the wooden cylinder, and guide him to stroke it, intending to coat the roller with the excess flour.

My gaze leaps to Aunt Gertie, who is watching Jude’s action like he’s doing something sexual.

“Okay,” I say a little too loudly. “Now we roll the dough.”

I hand Jude the roller and place my hands over his, and together we flatten the dough.

“Just like that,” I mutter. “You’re doing great,” I encourage, all the while being hyper aware of Jude’s closeness at my back and the way the roller moves back and forth, rocking Jude’s body ever so slightly into mine.

“Now who’s the bad one?” he eventually whispers near my ear, his breath tickling my neck and reminding me of his hand on it, his thumb stroking over my pulse point, and eventually his mouth sucking at me there.

“Pick a cutter,” I state, finding my voice tight, strained almost, when we finally have the dough spread out.

Is it hot in here? How can I be getting turned on with my family in the room? I tug at the collar of my sweater.

“You okay there, Angelica?” Christmas asks from across the table.

I glare back at her. “I’m fine.” But I’m certain my cheeks are rosy and my eyes wild.

Jude leans around me to pick a cutter from the middle of the table. “What the heck is this one?”

“A grinch,” one of my nephews states.

“Fitting,” Jude mumbles before pressing the form into the dough.

But when the cookie is eventually baked and decorated by Jude himself, he’s rather proud.

I’m proud of him, too. He didn’t complain about the flour on his suit pants or the chaotic noise of my family.

“You okay?” I asked him at one point.

“It’s just so bizarre,” he admitted. “No one is fighting or complaining or demanding a reshoot.”

He means the staged photo shoots of his younger cookie-baking experience.

I focused on the side of Jude’s beautiful face. The puzzlement and wonder frosted in his expression, and my heart crumbled like a few of the cookies we’d made. He’s missed out on so much. Things he didn’t even know he’d missed. Things he hadn’t known were possible. Love and laughter, even happy bickering, among a family. I wanted to wrap him in a hug.

And in this case, the only one taking pictures is my Aunt Gertie, who has an unhealthy obsession with her phone camera and is using it to capture every moment.

Or hot men baking cookies.

On more than one occasion, Gran had to tell Gertie she’d take her phone away from her. I caught Gran’s eye, who nodded at Jude. Thank goodness Aunt Gertie didn’t understand the internet or how to upload images to social media.

Eventually, the air was permeated with scents of vanilla and peppermint. Flour and brightly colored sugar is everywhere. Frosting overdecorates cookies and drips onto the table.

Christmas’s three boys were out of control, doped up by a sugar buzz. My brother, Dane’s twin girls were polar opposites of each other. The shier one wanted everything to be perfect; the wilder one deciding the more candy on a cookie, the better.

And in the middle of it all was Jude, silently observing, like he was taking notes.

My family didn’t leave him out of the mix but blended him in as if he’d always been here. A part of us. A member of the family.

The thought was doing strange things to my head. Weren’t we pretending to date?