Wrapped in You (9 page)

To distract herself from thinking about Mason, Trudy decided to go for a walk.

Not that it worked. If anything, she thought about him even more. It didn’t help that she was going to his place later. She couldn’t wait, and that bothered her.

Frowning, she tried to focus on the storefronts she was passing. Romantic Notions she was avoiding—she’d gotten into enough trouble there—but she stopped in front of the next one.
Outta My Gourd
. Gwen’s place.

Hands by her eyes, she peered in the window. It looked closed. It was Saturday, and the likelihood that Gwen was there seemed slim, but something made her try the door.

It opened.

Walking in, she looked around. “Hello?”

“Be right out,” came Gwen’s voice from the back.

Trudy bent to look at a vase on a pedestal next to her. It was beautiful, painted in vibrant colors in a Japanese-style scene. It took her a moment to realize it was made out of a gourd.

“Hey.” Gwen smiled as she flipped on a light switch. She wore bright orange pants and a pink sweater but no shoes, and her hands had splotches of paint on them. “Did you come to check out my studio?”

“Yes,” Trudy said impulsively, unwrapping her scarf.

Gwen waved her forward. “Come on. I’m painting today. Great scarf, by the way. Very festive.”

“It was a gift,” she informed her. “It’s not really me.”

“Then why are you wearing it?”

Trudy shrugged, avoiding the woman’s shrewd gaze by pretending to be interested in the workshop. “This is incredible. Do you only do gourds?”

“Mostly.” She pulled a stool out and gestured to it before taking her own seat. “I like the movement and curves. It just felt like the right thing, probably much like ferreting information is for you. Take these.”

She had no choice but to take the hollowed-out pumpkin and brush that Gwen foisted at her. “I’m good at finding information, but I’m not good at art.”

“And that’s the key, isn’t it? Finding what you’re good at and making a life from it.” Gwen set a palette in front of her. “Painting is easy. Just go with what you feel.”

At a loss, Trudy dredged her brush in the black paint and then stared at the gourd.

“Eve said you’re becoming a partner in the business,” Gwen said, dipping her own brush.

“I am.” Shrugging, she began to dab at the gourd’s surface.

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic about it.”

“I just have a lot on my mind.” She caught her lip between her teeth, trying to make her line straight.

“Like what?”

Trudy looked up, surprised by Gwen’s forthright nature. “I thought we were painting.”

“We’re also talking.” Gwen glanced at her as she reached for another brush. “Does it have anything to do with Kristin’s friend, the one you kissed at Grounds for Thought?”

“You don’t hold back, do you?”

Gwen shrugged, looking particularly Gallic for a second. “It’s better to be plainspoken, isn’t it? No guessing, no miscommunications. You get to the point without wasting time.”

Nodding, she set the brush down. “I agree, but I still don’t want to talk about him.”

“Fair enough.” Gwen laughed. Then she sobered and leaned in to survey Trudy’s gourd. “Are you done?”

“Yes. It’s a person.” She held it out and stared at the artist, daring her to mock her stick figure.

“I like it,” Gwen said, sounding sincere. “Want that spiked tea I promised you while I finish mine?”

Checking the time, she shook her head. “I should probably walk back so I’m not late.”

“Hot date?” Gwen asked slyly, setting her tools down and standing to walk her out.

She hoped, which was idiotic, because she should be keeping her distance from him. She was playing with fire. She glared at the scarf as she rewrapped it around her neck.

“I’m glad you stopped by, even it if was like a drive-by,” Gwen said, opening the door. “I’m sure I’ll see you at Eve’s, but come by any time. You’re always welcome.”

The woman meant it. If Trudy didn’t know better, she’d have thought Gwen viewed her as a friend.

She felt something peculiar in her chest. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a girlfriend. Walking toward Mason’s, she tried to figure out how she felt about it. She wanted to think she didn’t need anyone, but underneath she had to admit it felt kind of nice. She was still thinking about it as she rang Mason’s door.

“I got you something,” Mason said the moment he opened the door for her.

Trudy groaned as she entered, but on the inside she warmed. Taking off her scarf and jacket as she followed him up the stairs, she said, “Tell me it’s not Santa socks or, worse, a sexy elf costume.”

Mason glanced over his shoulder. “Would you wear a sexy elf costume?”

She arched her brow.

“It never hurts to ask, but, no, that’s not what I got you.”

She couldn’t imagine what it’d be—she was here to bake gingerbread cookies. Normally, she didn’t cook at all, much less bake, but she’d been impatiently looking forward to this all day. When she’d gone in for her latte, even Eve had commented on how Trudy kept checking the time.

He led her into the kitchen and picked up two boxes stacked on each other. “I got two things, actually.”

She glanced between the smaller box and the larger one. “Do I get any clues?”

“This one”—he handed her the big one—”is to wear to the holiday party. Because you don’t handle surprises well, I’ll tell you it’s a dress.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Her heart deflated, and dread settled in the pit of her stomach as she accepted it. No one had ever given her anything that came close to suiting her. Her parents had known her forever and still couldn’t get it right. The last article of clothing given to her had been from her mother, and it’d been a blue knit dress, which was lovely but not her at all. She’d sent it to Matilda, who’d been thrilled to receive it.

Mason nodded at the box. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

“Maybe later.” She set it aside, wishing she could rewind the past few minutes and start it over, minus the gift.

“Well, you have to open this one right away.” He shook it at her, and it made a tinkling rattle. “It’s integral to our goals for the day.”

Sighing, she took it and tore the wrapping off.
Ninjabread Men Kit
, she read. She looked up at him in question.

He shrugged. “You’re obviously not the gingerbread man type.”

She hugged the box to her chest. “I’m not?”

“Ninjas are your spirit animals. Any fool would see that, and my momma didn’t raise no fool.” He tossed her an apron. “You’re dawdling. Let’s get baking.”

Shaking her head, she set the ninjabread kit on the counter, away from the dress, and shook out the apron. Before tying it around herself she looked at the front. It had two chess knights facing each other. One had a gag over its mouth; the other had holes shot through it. The caption underneath read: Silent Knight, Holey Knight.

She snorted.

“I knew you’d like that,” Mason said as he tied his apron around him. His had an owl wearing a Santa’s hat with “Owl I want for Christmas is you” written under it. He smiled when he saw her reading it. “I ordered them when I ordered the cookie cutters. We don’t want to get messy.”

“Right.”

He held out a piece of paper. “The recipe. You want to be in charge?”

“Of course.” She took the paper and read the first instruction. Sift the flour? What did that mean? She glanced at all the ingredients Mason had lined up on the counter and began to feel cross-eyed. “Maybe I need help.”

“Here.” Mason slid a carton of eggs toward her. “You crack these. I always get the shells in the mixture.”

“Always?” she asked, relieved that she had a specific task. She wasn’t much of a cook, but she could crack eggs. “Do you bake cookies a lot?”

“I used to, before I moved to San Francisco. My grandmother loved to bake, especially during the holidays.” He measured flour in a cup and then dumped it all into a strange contraption that let the flour pass out the bottom into a bowl as he squeezed the handle. “Every year she made dozens of kinds of cookies. She’d spend a week, strategizing and deciding which recipes to bake, and then she’d spend the next couple weeks making them all. It was more carefully thought out than most military operations.”

She picked up the last egg. “And you helped her.”

“From the time I could keep my balance standing.” He flashed a smile at her. “The holidays were special in our household. Christmas Eve we’d have a huge dinner with a baked ham. The canned corn was my favorite. I’d bury it in my mashed potatoes like it was treasure only I knew about. After dinner Grandma would bring out trays of cookies in all shapes and colors.”

“I can picture it.” Trudy leaned against the counter, wiping her hands on her apron.

“My description doesn’t do the reality of it justice. It was like being offered all of Willy Wonka’s delights.” He shook his head, his gaze distant, in the past. “Then we’d sing carols and open presents. That was my sister’s favorite part, but my favorite was sitting next to my grandma and eating the cookies we’d worked so hard to make.”

“She must miss you,” Trudy said softly.

“I miss her.” His smile became sad. “Grandma passed away four years ago. My dad, mom, sister, and I make cookies together now, along with my sister’s husband and their two brats. It’s fun, even if it’s not the same.”

Trudy blinked, startled to feel the prickle of tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, lowering her head so he wouldn’t see what a sap she was.

Mason added a few things into the bowl and mixed them. “It’s a part of life, right? People come, people go. You have to savor them while you have them. How about you?”

“What about me?”

“Does your family have traditions?” He handed her the bowl and pointed to the eggs. “Do you guys bake cookies?”

“Ha!” She dumped the eggs in and began mixing it all. “Mother makes fruitcake that could pass as a weapon. I think it’s more to spite her neighbors than to share goodwill.”

“Your family doesn’t mind that you aren’t there with them?” he asked, his turn to lean against the counter.

“They’re always busy with Matilda during the holidays. It’s the only time of the year she goes home to visit.” She held the bowl out. “I think it’s good.”

He sprinkled a few things in and added a couple dashes of other things. “Mix that. I’ll get the roller.”

After she finished stirring, he scooped out the dough and plopped it onto a floured surface. He held out the roller. “You get to do the honors.”

“Okay.” She took it hesitantly.

“It’s easy, just flatten it to an even thickness.”

Right. She began to work the dough.

“So your sister is in Rwanda?” he asked after a moment.

“Yes. Matilda is saving the world, one person at a time.” She hoped she didn’t sound bitter, because her sister really did do amazing things for humanity.

“She sounds”—Mason frowned—”what’s the word?”

“Special?” she offered, smacking the roller onto the dough.

“That’s a word I guess, but not the one I was looking for. You need to make it a little thinner.” He stepped up behind her, his body pressed to hers, and he placed his hands on top of hers. “Put your weight behind it.”

She swallowed, knowing she should focus on the cookie dough instead of Mason’s breath on the back of her neck—or the feel of his body wrapped around her.

Which was delicious.

She closed her eyes so she could memorize it. He was taller, and she could feel his belt buckle press into the small of her back. The muscles of his arms enveloped her, and his hands held her protected. It felt warm and caring even as it excited.

It felt like home.

She inhaled, his clean scent mixing with the spicy aroma of the cookies. From then on, whenever she smelled cinnamon and cloves she was going to remember Mason and this perfect moment.

“That’s good,” he murmured.

She glanced back at him. “Do we need the cutters?”

His gaze met hers, serious and searching. “We’re missing something.”

“What?” she asked with a frown. “I thought you put everything in there.”

“Cookies aren’t special if you don’t make them with love.”

Love? Her breath caught in her throat, and she started to shake her head. “I—”

He lowered his mouth and kissed her. It was firm without being demanding, letting her rise up to meet him only if she wanted.

She did want—so badly that she was tempted to push him on the floor and take him right there. She opened her eyes to tell him that, but her gaze fell on the dress box.

Shifting her shoulders, she put a little space between them. She needed to keep her head. This had the potential for disaster if she began to hope too much. “What’s next?”

His mouth quirked with wry humor, and his gaze called her a coward. But he said, “Grab the cookie sheet over there.”

They worked in silence for the first few minutes as they cut out the ninjabread men and lined them on the tray. Then he said, “Tell me about your sister. Is she older?”

“Yes.”

“And she’s always perfect and nice and everyone’s favorite?” he asked.

She smirked. “You didn’t tell me you’d met her.”