Frosting Her Christmas Cookies - Alina Jacobs Page 0,73

another bite. “It goes well with whiskey. If you survive The Great Christmas Bake-Off, you should do a cooking series with pairings of cured meats and liquor.”

“Only if you’re around to help me,” Jonathan said.

My heart raced. He wants me around!

Lilith: Deets deets, we need deets!

Emma: Did you survive?

Emma: Did you see his cock?

Emma: Was it the best sex of your entire life?

Morticia: Still no cock. But it was a nice date.

Lilith: You’re turning into quite the high-society girl.

Morticia: Don’t get too excited. He took me to a pop-up Christmas bar then ate me out, and I fell asleep.

Emma: …That’s not good.

Morticia: What do you mean not good!?

Emma: You’re supposed to make a good impression on the first date. You fell asleep. You basically told him he was bad at sex.

Lilith: If he doesn’t completely ghost you, you need to up your sex game.

I couldn’t be ghosted by Jonathan! I had to finish my project. But first, I needed to survive the Getty internship in-person interview.

“Leaving already?” Jonathan asked as I stuffed my phone into my bag.

“Yeah, I have some things to take care of,” I said, hoping he didn’t press the issue. I didn’t need him to know about the project or the scholarship. That would all lead to questions, and the questions would lead him to the inevitable conclusion that I was a weirdo loser who stalked men and built bizarre shrines to them.

“I’ll call you,” I said, slipping out of his arms to the door.

He reached out to stop me and turn me toward him. “I had a nice time, Morticia,” he said, then leaned down to kiss me.

It was freezing as I crossed the road and headed for Dorothy’s studio. It was like going to see the witch that lived in the woods, except Dorothy lived in a converted shipping container in the middle of an abandoned industrial property. Her tiny house and studio had been festooned with Christmas lights, and there was a Christmas scene sculpted in metal out front.

I paused to peer at it. It didn’t look like the usually kitschy holiday yard art.

“It’s my own interpretation,” Dorothy said happily as she opened the door. “It’s Mrs. Claus welcoming Santa back home.”

“That’s graphic.”

“It’s art,” she said sagely. “You should see the offers I have on that piece.”

I followed her into the shipping container. Inside was a minimalist Scandinavian décor with white walls and blond Baltic birch accents. On the walls and hanging in the windows were minimalist holiday decorations in a similar vein. A fire burned cheerfully in a small ship’s stove in one corner.

“You know,” I said, looking around, “I wouldn’t mind Christmas if it all looked like this.”

“I love Christmas!” Dorothy exclaimed. “The parties, the booze.” She pulled out a bottle and started to make us drinks. “I even have a soft spot for the music and the movies.”

“It’s all so commercial though,” I commented.

“Of course it’s commercial; everyone knows it. But there is still something magical about Christmas for me. I see old friends and make new ones, drink and eat and reminisce. Christmas is what you make of it. You want to have minimalist decorations and eat nothing but donuts, then you can go ahead and call it Christmas!” She handed me my drink. “Speaking of which, it looks like you’ve been making a new friend.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Dorothy cackled. “I know a gal who got some last night! How is he?” she asked, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “I usually don’t go for younger men—can’t handle all the drama. Give me a seasoned penis that’s not afraid to stand outside and do yoga naked in the snow. Still. That body though.” She whistled.

“It’s a very nice body,” I admitted, then drained my glass to try and keep from thinking about said body.

“Is it inspirational?” she asked gleefully.

“That too.”

“Did you take my advice on the art project?”

I blushed, thinking about the pictures of him and me.

“You have to let me see!” Dorothy demanded.

“It’s not done yet,” I warned as I pulled out my phone to show her the in-progress art piece. “Is it too avant garde?” I asked her.

Dorothy inspected the photo on my phone. “Damn, girl. If you go the direction I think you are, you’re going to have a unanimous vote from the women on the scholarship board. The artist, Zarah, is heading up this scholarship. She loves the type of art where women turn the tables.” Dorothy fist-bumped me. “And way to commit. I’m always trying