Frosting Her Christmas Cookies - Alina Jacobs Page 0,20

being watched then jumped up and down like a cheerleader.

Morticia: You are looking at the person who just aced her interview!

Morticia: And there is a scholarship just waiting for me to pluck off of the tree!

Lilith: Praise the goddess!

Lilith: We’re going to make an offering.

Emma: And we should order some celebratory pizza and cake. You can’t eat offerings to the spirits.

Lilith: I mean you could but that’s probably bad luck.

Morticia: I need an award-winning idea for an original art piece.

Emma: Do something food related since you’re doing all that baking anyway.

Lilith: We’ll do tea leaves and tarot after you get kicked off the competition.

Lilith: That will help you know what direction to go in with the judges.

In just a few more hours, I would be back in Harrogate. Sure, I would have to suffer through living with Penny and Garrett for a few weeks, as I’d told them to go ahead and renovate the carriage house, because I was absolutely winning that internship. If they became too much, I would find somewhere else to live. Shoot, I’d sleep in the park if it meant I didn’t have to suffer through another night of nonstop baking and Christmas music.

The contestants were supposed to assemble in Jonathan’s bar across the street to send the next bachelorette off on the Christmas float to freedom. I was a little early, but since I was sure I was about to leave, I decided to celebrate prematurely with a cocktail.

“You can’t bring that cat in here,” the bartender told me.

“He’s my emotional support animal,” I said, leveling my gaze at him.

He sighed.

“Come on, it’s not like anyone else is in here.”

“Yeah, because its eleven a.m.,” Jonathan said, sauntering up to the bar. “Normal people are at work and not drinking.” He made some sort of cryptic signal to the bartender. “Though it’s not like anyone would insult you by calling you normal.”

The bartender set about making a drink. I watched him.

“So…” Jonathan drawled, leaning against the bar counter.

I petted Salem.

Jonathan made a hurry-up motion. “You owe me a nice compliment. I saved your cat and was severely injured in the process.”

I grabbed his hand and undid his watch.

“We’re in a public place, Morticia!”

“Cool it. I’m checking for an infection,” I said, trailing my fingers around the cut on his wrist. I ignored how large his hand was and the way the tendons jumped under my fingertips, and the muscle rippled on his forearm when I unbuttoned the cuff links and pushed up his sleeve.

This is the closest to a man you’ve been in a long time...

Not true. Last night, we were much closer.

I swallowed then cleared my throat. “I don’t feel any heat or inflammation.”

“I’m flattered you care about me!” Jonathan grinned. “I feel like I’m slowly moving into your sphere of important people.”

“Don’t get your hopes up. The last thing I needed was for Belle to come after me because my cat put her little brother in the hospital.”

The bartender slid my drink over. I reached for it.

Jonathan cocktail-blocked me. “I want my nice comment,” he purred.

I blew out a breath. “You look very rich today.”

Jonathan frowned then leaned forward. “Do I look like I’m worth ten figures or a measly nine?”

“How is two billion dollars not good enough for you?” I asked him.

“I need at least sixteen so they’ll put my picture in the TechBiz magazine in February.”

“I hope you’re not banking on the alcohol sales and The Great Christmas Bake-Off to raise your net worth,” I said with a snort.

“No,” he said, rocking back on his heels, “I have a bigger reindeer in the stable for that!”

“I see that we’re at the point of the day where we’re doing Christmas puns. I’ll take my drink now.”

“And I’ll take my compliment now,” Jonathan said, picking up the drink.

“You don’t need any more ego stroking.”

Jonathan inspected the drink. He did cut a fine figure. The bar must have been designed with him in mind. With his platinum hair, charcoal suit, and blue eyes, he looked electric against the masculine lines of the bar.

“A black old fashioned with cane sugar from Colombia, a splash of spring water, a booze-soaked black Luxardo maraschino cherry, and of course a dark blood orange and General George whiskey aged five years.”

“Actually, it’s the ten, sir,” the bartender said, setting a bottle on the counter.

My fingers itched for my phone. The way Jonathan was holding the glass, the dark, almost black flesh of the blood orange, the way he studied the