Holly, Jolly, and Oh So Naughty (Festive Flames)
Holly, Jolly, and Oh So Naughty: Chapter 21

“Are you going to press charges?” Amelia asks, her face weaving in and out of our FaceTime call as she dresses quickly.

“Charges?”

“Against Mark?”

“Oh.” I snort softly, focusing on sliding a silver earring into place. “I don’t know, but honestly, who tries to ask someone out on a date with a cake topper they stole when breaking into their bakery?”

“An idiot,” Amelia mutters.

“I can’t believe he thought that would work. Did he imagine that I’d be so swept off my feet that he used a cake topper, because I’m a baker, that I’d forgive him for trashing my business?”

“I suppose his grand plan was to sweep in and help you clean up the mess, making him look irresistible and helpful. And instead, good old James got there first.”

“Cops weren’t kidding when they said the culprit returns to the scene of the crime,” I murmur, sliding the next earring in. I still can’t fathom how Mark saw that conversation going any other way. The moment he’d pulled out that cake topper, none of his lies about where he got it held any merit since all my cake toppers are unique to their cakes.

He’d broken into my bakery, trashed the place, and then somehow hoped I would still view him in a romantic light.

Just thinking it over makes me laugh. Better that than to cry.

“I saw him today at the end of the Nativity show,” Amelia says, dabbing purple onto her lips. “He couldn’t look me in the eye.”

“No wonder,” I reply. “Well, it’s up to the cops now. I told them I didn’t care. I just wanted it over with. On the plus side, having his confession will make it easier for my insurance to come through.”

“Ooh, and then you can treat yourself?” Amelia waggles her brows.

“No, then I can pay off the shelves and the new door at the bakery.”

“Damn. So responsible.” Amelia sighs. “Right, I’m away to my Christmas party. Have a nice date!” She winks at me, blows a kiss, and ends the call.

I roll my eyes and blow a kiss back just as the screen goes dark.

My date.

When James called asking to take me out on a real date, with real intention, I’d said yes because it would be the perfect opportunity for us to talk. I hadn’t expected him to then turn up at my home with a bag full of ingredients and a promise to cook for me.

“You bake all day,” he’d said, setting the bags down in the kitchen. “Let me create something for you.”

When Emma ran up to him for a hug and demanded help, I couldn’t say no. So right now, James is in my kitchen cooking me dinner alongside my daughter.

In another life, this would be a regular occurrence. Facing the truth of what we need to talk about will be difficult with Emma around, but once she goes to sleep, I’m certain I’ll be able to express all the things I need to say.

That mental confidence does nothing to untangle the nest of snakes in my gut as I head downstairs wearing a soft green dress that flows about my knees as I walk. A sweet and spicy scent fills the air when I approach the kitchen, and when I poke my head inside, I’m met with a delightful sight.

Emma stands on her stool with a hat made of paper on her head declaring her the Head Chef. It slants to one side as she ducks her head and focuses on stirring a saucepan. James is nearby, dancing along to the soft Christmas music that plays from his phone while he spins tortilla wraps around in his hands.

“How’s the sauce looking, Chef?”

“Tasty!” Emma declares with a lick of the spoon. “You did good.”

“Why, thank you.” James laughs. “Although, try not to eat it all before we put it in the pan.”

“Taste testing is important. Mommy says so,” Emma says matter-of-factly.

“That’s true,” James agrees, swaying back and forth. “But it’s so good you won’t want to stop.”

He’s right, and as she dips the spoon into the pot again, James sweeps her off the stool with one arm. Emma squeals and laughs, yelling as he spins her around and sets her down on the second stool in front of the tray.

“Sorry, Head Chef, but you’re required over here!”

“What do I do?” She looks up at him with such trust that my heart squeezes. I’ve seen them together before, but right in this moment, they’re so painfully father and daughter it’s a wonder James doesn’t already know.

I remain silent, watching as James guides her through how to fill the wraps with a spoonful of the mixture, a sprinkle of cheese, and then how to fold them over. They’re on their third one when Emma finally notices me.

“Mommy! You look so nice!”

James’s head snaps up and he smiles warmly when our eyes meet. “You do. You look amazing.”

“Thank you.” Warmth rushes to my cheeks. “So, what have my two master chefs been making tonight?”

“Enlidas!” Emma declares.

“Enchiladas,” James corrects with a laugh. “Ten minutes in the oven and they will be ready to eat.” He sweeps the full tray away from Emma and slides it into the oven.

“They smell amazing already,” I say as I fall into old habits and start to clean up. I only manage to get one swipe of the cloth before James snatches it from me and flicks his tongue against his teeth.

“Not you. You are being treated tonight, so please, go and sit at the table and let me clean up.”

“James—”

“I insist! Go! Shoo!” He flaps his hands, and I obey, laughing.

It’s nice to be treated like this. I don’t think I ever have been before. Emma discards her hat and scurries over to me, climbing into the chair next to me. As she begins to tell me about how amazing her Nativity show was and how excited she is to do it again tomorrow night, I watch James bustle around out of the corner of my eye.

He fits in almost too well, like he’s been cooking in that kitchen for years. I know Emma likely told him where everything was, but he replaces it all with ease and the softer side of my heart eats up the domesticity of it. Especially with Emma chatting away happily beside me. My heart is just melting.

When dinner is served, James sits on the other side of me, and our knees bump together under the table. I enjoy the contact so I don’t move away, and we dig into what is, unknowingly, our first family meal.

“Wow,” I moan softly. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

“I’m exceptional with my hands.” James smiles. “Do I look like I can’t cook?”

“I mean, aren’t you more used to people cooking for you?” I say with a smile. “I’m impressed, that’s all.”

“It’s yummy!” Emma declares, stabbing at her food like she’s trying to kill the already dead chicken. “I love it! Better than the nasty, dusty biscuits Mark made that time.”

“Oh, God.” I groan at the memory of him dropping round with his family recipe biscuits long before I knew he was interested in me. Those biscuits were certainly something.

“I’m glad.” James chuckles. “Simple and easy but oh, so tasty.”

We eat amicably and share stories of our days. Mine was filled with baking the last cake I was behind on and sending two more away to those who won the baking tickets at the auction. James keeps his details light but had a busy day with patients, and Emma happily tells us all about her third day in the Nativity. Each night has been a success and she only has one left to go.

After dinner, James serves ice cream and we retire to the lounge, where we watch some Christmas cartoons until bedtime rolls around for Emma. With all the excitement of James and dinner, I expect her to stay up later, but as soon as her eyes droop, she’s ready for bed. I excuse us and take care of getting her into bed, tucking her in with several kisses and a story.

She’s asleep by the time I finish page five.

Back downstairs, James has cracked open a bottle of wine and he hands me a glass of red. “Happy?”

“Very,” I say, sipping my drink. “What made you want to cook instead of going out?”

“Well, I know Emma is an important part of your life, so I thought cooking for you both would show you that I’m serious about wanting to be in your life.”

I settle back into the soft cushions of the couch and watch James as he speaks. The lights are down low, and while muted, the TV switches to a music show that paints light and color over his face.

“You really mean that?” I ask, curious why he means it now when back then, it was so easy for him to get rid of me.

“I do.” James tilts his glass and takes a drink. “You and Emma are amazing. And together. Which I accept. No one can date you without making friends with Emma.”

Does he really not know? Is he really unable to connect the dots between seven years ago and now?

“That’s true,” I reply.

“And Mark?” James snorts, and there’s a smug look in his eye. “I heard he was in a spot of bother.”

“Did you hear the details?”

“Nope, but Margret told me it involved you and she wants me to get the details.”

I tip my head back and laugh. “Mark was the one who broke into my bakery and destroyed it. His grand plan was to be my knight in shining armor. He was just late. And stupid. He asked me out with one of my own cake toppers. I suppose it was meant to be romantic.”

“Wow,” James breathes and he slides closer. “Are you okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“Can’t be easy learning someone you trusted broke into your business like that.”

“I wouldn’t say I trusted him,” I correct gently. “But I don’t know. I’m just happy to have answers. And to get insurance moving. I’m sure I’ll be laughing about it soon.”

“No wonder he was so annoyed at me that day he turned up, trying to be all cagey.” James rolls his eyes and takes another drink. “I’m happy to benefit from his terrible plan, though. Getting to spend time with you?” James winks. “I’ll take all the chances I can get.”

I should ask him. I should put down my glass and ask him why he left. Why he had his mother speak to me that way all those years ago.

But the words don’t come.

This night has been lovely. Good food, excellent company, and a happy Emma make for a happy Lily.

I don’t want to ruin this. Putting it off can’t be a good idea, but I don’t have the heart to bring it up right now. Not when my skin is warm, my blood is heated, and my attention keeps drifting down to James’s silk shirt, which has three buttons open near his collar.

Tomorrow. I can ask him tomorrow.

I set my glass side and move closer on the couch. James’s attention is on me completely, and his eyes dart down to my lips, then back to my eyes.

“James,” I say softly. “We should talk.”

“We should,” he says huskily, eyeing my lips again.

“But this has been such a nice night. I’ve never had someone cook for me before.”

“You’re welcome,” James says. “It has been a nice night.”

“Maybe…” Warmth pulses across my bare arms and my heart begins to flutter. “Maybe we can talk tomorrow?”

“In the daytime?” James nods. “Sounds wise. I like that idea.”

I lean closer. “Maybe tomorrow morning?”

“I’m free,” James says, and his voice is low.

I should resist.

I don’t.

I give in to the warmth in my heart and slide into James’s lap, cupping his face and kissing him deeply.

Maybe in a few years, I’ll explore why someone cooking me dinner, and caring for me, got me so hot and bothered, but that’s a job for a therapist.

James’s hands settle on my waist, caressing my thighs as we kiss deeply. I stroke his jaw, feeling the light stubble along his cheek, and weave my tongue along his with a soft moan. I’m not even sure what I want fully, but I know I want him.

Both my hands slide down to his chest and I grasp his shirt. With one tug, I pull it open and a sudden rise of hardness beneath me makes me pull back and glance down.

“Are you hard already?”

“Sorry,” James gasps, and his cheeks flush pink. “You’re just so hot.”

“Wow.” I smile, and pride swells in my chest. Have I ever turned someone on just from a kiss? “You’d better put that thing to use.”