Frosting Her Christmas Cookies - Alina Jacobs Page 0,44

you’d be breaking, my mind chattered.

Before I could decide if I wanted him to kiss me or not, he released me. I had missed the moment.

Or maybe there was no moment, and it’s all in your head like with Justin.

I scuttled away from Jonathan, letting my hair fall over my face. “Let’s finish the shoot.”

He picked up the gingerbread house and took a bite right out of the roof as I snapped pictures. “Dang!” he said. “This is great.”

“Baked just a few hours ago,” I said, glad that I hadn’t used the store-bought stuff after all.

He took another bite, chewed thoughtfully, and smirked. “I knew I would like eating your gingerbread.”

22

Jonathan

While sipping my coffee the next morning, I smiled as I scrolled through the pictures Morticia had posted on the Hillrock West distillery Instagram feed. Between the snow fall, the gingerbread house, and yours truly, the pictures screamed Christmas. People were going crazy in the comments, and we’d added another ten thousand followers since the previous night.

Jonathan: I knew you were a secret Christmas lover.

Morticia: Never. I just like money. Some of us don’t have trust fund IVs.

Jonathan: Correction. The marketing firm I hired and subsequently fired liked money. You have an obsession.

Morticia: I do not have a closet Christmas obsession.

Jonathan: Then the only other option is that you are completely obsessed with me.

Morticia: Screw you.

Jonathan: Don’t worry, when you kidnap me for Christmas to show me off to your family I’ll totally play along.

Morticia: If I kidnap you, I’m not taking you to Christmas dinner.

Jonathan: So you want me to come be a sex slave in your dungeon. Got it.

I was composing another response when my phone rang, sending the cheery lilt of “Jingle Bell Rock” around the loft.

“Merry Christmas!” I said.

“Where the fuck are you?” my oldest brother, Owen, demanded.

“Shit. I forgot the kids!”

“Yes,” Owen said. “You promised you were going to go pick up Oliver and Matt from the train station. They’re outside. Fortunately, they aren’t freezing. If it’s warm enough for snow, then it’s not actually that cold out.”

Because I was supposed to pick them up, my younger brothers had not taken the train all the way to Penn Station and instead had gotten off at a stop closer to my company headquarters. They were slumped on a bench when I pulled up.

“Why didn’t you take a nicer car?” Oliver complained when he saw me.

“And a Merry Christmas to you too.”

“Did you bring any food?” Matt asked.

“It’s no wonder Belle left if you two are going to act like spoiled brats,” I snapped.

My younger brothers reacted as if I had slapped them.

“Sorry,” I said, giving them each a hug.

“Is she still mad?” Oliver asked apprehensively.

“She’s not exactly a bright, shining beacon of Christmas cheer.”

“It’s probably because you aren’t being a good bake-off judge,” Matt said accusingly as I dragged their bags to my SUV.

“I’m a great judge!”

“You haven’t made any insightful comments,” Matt replied.

“What, are you watching and taking notes?” I scoffed.

He and Oliver looked at each other. “The Svenssons say that one of us has to be on the show next year to slingshot our company. I want to be a billionaire by next Christmas,” Matt said grandiosely.

I shoved him and Oliver into the car. “There’s more to being a billionaire than fast cars, women, and booze,” I said.

“There’s also the money, fame, and magazine covers,” Matt said happily.

“It’s a lot of work,” I warned as I drove back to my condo.

“You don’t work. You just eat desserts all day and get your picture taken,” Oliver scoffed.

“Just for that, I’m not cooking for you,” I said. I parked the car and dragged their bags into the lobby.

“I don’t want you to cook anyway!”

“But can you convince your girlfriend to make lasagna?” Oliver begged as we rode the elevator up.

“Morticia’s not my girlfriend,” I said sharply.

“Why? Falling down on the job?” Matt said as he texted on his phone. “I would have expected better from you.”

“If you’re going to act like dicks, maybe you need to stop spending so much time around the Svenssons,” I retorted as we headed into my condo.

“What? No! Tristan is my boy!”

I shook my head as I perused the fridge. I could make eggs, since that seemed to be all I had. I had a service that delivered prepared meals every few days. But I hadn’t received the next shipment yet.

I haphazardly cracked the eggs into a bowl while my younger brothers chattered on about Harvard and their brilliant business ideas.