his half-assed apology but not really accepting it.
And for God knows what reason, that hurt. Unlike anyone he’d ever met, her fierce protective retort had elicited a response in him.
“That was a shitty thing for me to say. What can I do to make it up to you?”
Her hardened demeanor melted away as a decidedly mischievous smirk pulled at the corners of her lips, and immediately, he regretted his apology. She was cooking up—or baking up—a plan, and it didn’t look good for him.
She placed the tray of cookies into the oven, dusted off her hands, then pulled her phone out of her bag.
“Are you setting your phone’s timer?” he asked, working to keep the nervous edge out of his voice.
Why did she make him nervous?
He didn’t know. But she did.
“Well, Mr. Rudolph, to make it up to me, I’ve got a job for you,” she said, tapping away on her phone.
“What’s that? More chocolate to unwrap?”
Jesus! Was it getting hot in here? It had to be the oven.
She glanced at the mound of chocolate kisses. “Nope, that’s enough.”
He unzipped his coat and hung it on the back of the kitchen chair. “Then what?”
With one last tap to her cell, music played and a deep voice crooning “White Christmas” filled the peanut butter scented air.
She plucked a gummy bear from the bag Tanner had left on the counter and popped it into her mouth as her mischievous smirk morphed into a full-on shit-eating grin.
“You, Scooter Rudolph, are going to dance.”
8
Soren
Dance?
“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” he shot back.
He glanced around the kitchen. They were alone in the mountain house, but there was no way he was about to break into a jig or whatever the hell she wanted him to do.
Bridget popped a few more gummy bears into her mouth, then swayed to the music. He recognized the tune—he wasn’t a complete Grinch. It was Bing Crosby. Janine had played the very same holiday album in her kitchen all those years ago. The guy had a deep voice and, to a ten-year-old, sounded pretty corny. He’d giggled with Janine’s sons at the sound of it. But there was a soothing, calming quality to the music he’d never forgotten.
Bridget sashayed around the room, tidying up as the heady scent of the baking cookies mingled with the pile of unwrapped chocolates. His mouth watered, and he wasn’t sure if he craved her or the sweets.
And speaking of sweets, when was the last time he’d indulged in baked goods? He couldn’t even remember. Those cupcakes Mr. and Mrs. Angel had left at his office smelled delectable, but he didn’t eat that kind of junk. It took work to get abs like his.
Discipline.
Self-control.
Two important qualities his parents never possessed.
Entitled.
Selfish.
Thoughtless.
Careless.
Those were more emblematic words to describe his family if you could call it that.
He crossed his arms. “Why don’t you eat a sandwich?” he said, going into scrooge mode.
“I’m good sticking with the gummy bears. They aren’t half bad. They’ve got an earthy cinnamon flavor to them. I’ll have to ask Tanner for the recipe,” she answered, eating another, then doing a little twirl in front of him.
He frowned. “When was the last time you ate a real meal?”
She cocked her head to the side. “Define, a real meal.”
“We know you didn’t have dinner.”
“Nope,” she answered with another twirl.
His one-night vixen had mellowed out quite a bit.
He huffed an exasperated breath. “What are you doing, Bridget?”
“Dancing,” she replied, enunciating the syllables slowly as if she were addressing an idiot, then took his hand and twirled underneath it. It was a bizarrely charming move.
He’d never met anyone like her.
“Why are you dancing?” he pressed as “White Christmas” ended, and Bing started in on “God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman.”
She pointed at the oven. “It’s for the cookies.”
“You’re dancing for lumps of sugar and peanut butter?”
“No, I’m injecting joyful Christmas spirit into them,” she answered, then swiped the oven mitt off the counter and threw it at him.
He snapped it out of the air with one hand. “Are you on something?”
She frowned with her hands on her hips. “No, I’ve never done drugs in my entire life. I barely drink. But I do dance for anything I bake.”
He walked across the kitchen and set the mitt on the counter. “Is this why you got fired? Did you freak out the people in the bakery with your prancing and dancing?”
She beckoned with her index finger for him to come closer.