Frosting Her Christmas Cookies - Alina Jacobs Page 0,52

it smelling like fresh snow and Christmas, it was going to smell like cheap perfume and flammable lingerie.

I pawed through my drawers and pulled out a black shirt.

Belle: First contestants are coming!

Jonathan: Five minutes.

I inspected my reflection. In the mirror, the pants were actually a few inches too short. I looked like Tarzan.

I had a robe somewhere that someone had given me way back when. I rummaged in the back corners of my walk-in closet, trying to find it, as my phone buzzed with texts from my sister telling me to hurry up.

“I think this is it,” I grunted. I fished around and grabbed something soft and fluffy and moist. I jerked my hand back.

“What the fuck?”

I shined my phone’s flashlight into the back section of my closet. Two blue orbs stared back at me.

“It’s the Krampus!” I yelled.

“Jonathan?” my sister called. Her footsteps came down the hall. “How long does it take you to get dressed?”

“There’s a demon back there!” I yelled, running out of my closet.

My sister stifled a laugh when she saw me.

“Hey,” I protested, “you wanted me to wear this.”

“Do you just have a normal set of pajamas?” she asked me.

“No, I don’t wear pajamas,” I said mulishly.

“Then put on some sweatpants. I swear to god, I’m not doing Christmas next year; I’m going to the Bahamas.”

I sagged a bit.

“You can come too,” she assured me.

“Can we go to Iceland instead?” I pleaded.

“Sure, whatever. Just change. I’ll get your ‘demon.’” She made air quotes. “It’s probably a band T-shirt or something you bought during a drunk shopping session.”

I heard her rummaging around in the closet while I tugged on a pair of sweatpants. “Holy shit!” my sister exclaimed. “When did you adopt a cat?”

27

Morticia

Jonathan looked pissed during the bake-off challenge introduction. I didn’t know what to do.

Why do you care what he thinks of you? You two are completely different. There was no hope anything was going to work out. He doesn’t like people like you. You’re abrasive and odd.

Around me, the other contestants in their lingerie baked their desserts, their perky boobs bouncing as they worked. I was wearing pajamas, yes, but I had a whole layer of clothes on under them including tights, a bra, and a chemise.

Concentrate on the food, I told myself. I was making apple-caramel cinnamon rolls, one of my favorite recipes.

As I made the dough (using buttermilk to make the cinnamon rolls as fluffy as possible), I fretted. When we had finally finished our trek back to Jonathan’s condo with the cat and the tree last night, we still had to decorate. Unfortunately, somehow, we had lost the cat.

Morticia: Did you find Cindy Lou Who?

Lilith: We looked all morning. Now they are getting ready to start filming.

Emma: I hope the poor baby didn’t escape outside somehow.

Morticia: We should have kept a better eye on her after we gave her a bath.

The British shorthair had tolerated about thirty seconds of us drying her off then had jumped out of Lilith’s arms and disappeared into the depths of Jonathan’s excessively large condo.

We had had too much decorating to do to try and hunt down the cat. We had figured she would come out of hiding once we had finished the decorating and there wasn’t as much commotion.

Except she hadn’t reappeared.

It was one more rubber band on my ball of anxiety. My art piece wasn’t done, and I had just two weeks left before I needed to submit it. Somehow, I was still in The Great Christmas Bake-Off despite my best—or worst—efforts, I had to create all the marketing materials for the distillery, and now I had a mountain of cinnamon rolls to bake.

After placing my finished dough in a greased bowl and sliding it into the warm oven to rise, I started heating the sugar on the stove while I chopped up the Granny Smith apples.

Even though I despised Christmas, I loved cinnamon rolls. These apple-caramel cinnamon rolls were actually one of my fall recipes, but I was going to add some green and red sprinkles to the cream cheese icing to make them seem Christmassy. I tossed the apples with heaps of cinnamon, nutmeg, and a generous splash of bourbon.

As the sugar heated, I stirred it until it formed clumps then finally started to melt into a golden syrup. I carefully added the salted butter, whisking vigorously. Once it was combined, I slowly drizzled in the heavy cream. The salty-sweet smell wafted to my nose, and I started to relax. Caramel