Page 44 of Moody's Grumpy Holiday
“Not sure what I’ll do, but I know that I need to peel my ass off this cold floor before I’m stuck here for eternity with a drooling goat on my chest.” He stood and held his hand out. “C’mon. Let’s put the eggnog away for now and take Nelly home.”
We exited through the gate in his yard and strolled the moonlit path to the barn. Hudson dropped Nelly off with her family, then gave me a tour, introducing me to his favorite cows and a horse in the stable he’d nicknamed The Boss.
I’d always been skittish around animals. They were big and smelly and possibly dangerous. And while I didn’t think I was incorrect, with a real cowboy at my side, I felt brave enough to pet an animal who outweighed me by eight hundred pounds or more. It was invigorating and fun…the way everything seemed to be when I was with Hudson.
I was so giddy from our excursion that I forgot to decline his offer of bourbon in my eggnog and I didn’t make a fuss about the amount of work ahead of us after we’d scoured the kitchen post goat visit.
We couldn’t simply make the dough and bake it, we needed a design. We discussed various ideas while sipping eggnog, finally agreeing that a basic rectangular shaped ranch with a small barn was the way to go.
“We can bake tonight, cut the gingerbread and let it harden tonight. I recommend waiting till tomorrow to decorate.”
Hudson smiled and tied an apron over his plaid shirt. “I’m in. Just tell me what you need me to do.”
I glanced up from the recipe on Hudson’s iPad as the first notes of “All I Want for Christmas Is You” blasted from the Bluetooth speaker on the kitchen counter.
This was my wakeup call.
This holly jolly nonsense was the worst. It was everything I’d sworn off years ago—the gateway to crushing memories and debilitating fear. Dramatic, yes. I knew it. And trust me, my therapist did too. I’d funneled my nonsensical feelings into a curmudgeon persona of sorts that made the holidays palatable, but the eggnog, the tree, the twinkling Christmas lights in the kitchen window, and now…holiday music? This was too much.
This was where I’d say, “Turn that off or I’m leaving,” or perhaps I’d walk out the door without a word. I didn’t owe Hudson an explanation. I was a nutball during the holidays. Everyone knew it. They’d warned him, I’d warned him. What was he thinking?
I froze, hoping my whirling mind would quiet so I could make a decision. But Mariah sang louder and Hudson was shaking his hips, dancing as he refreshed our drinks and added more bourbon. Oh gosh, and now he was humming and he was wearing an apron and he was nice to baby goats and to horses and to me and?—
I plucked the glass from his hand, set it on the counter, and lunged for him, standing on tiptoe as I fused my mouth to his.
Hudson took my overenthusiastic lip-lock and turned it into something hot and sexy. I melted into the kiss, loving the taste of sweet eggnog and alcohol on his tongue and the feel of his strong arms around my waist. It was heaven, and I didn’t ever want to let go.
He rested his forehead against mine and tilted my chin till I met his gaze. “You okay?”
“I’m splendiferous.”
Hudson threw his head back and laughed. “Glad to hear it. Should we start baking?”
I nodded. “Yes. Let’s bake.”
A little-known fact about yours truly…I was an excellent baker. Top tier, first rate, “could lend a hand at a fancy French patisserie in a pinch” good. Seriously.
“Whoa! How do you know how to crack eggs like that?” Hudson asked, wrinkling his nose in wonder or confusion. “Hang on. Did you even measure the sugar? How do you know if that’s the right amount?”
Fair questions.
“I perfected this recipe at the tender age of twelve and made it continually for twenty years. I’ve taken a couple of years off, but I’ll never forget how to crack a darn egg.”
“Okay…well, what can I do?”
“You could measure and mix the flour, salt, and baking powder.”
Hudson gave a thumbs-up, tossing curious glances as I blended sugar and butter, swaying to a familiar carol on the radio. “Twenty years of baking?”
“Yes.” I pushed at the frame of my glasses with the heel of my hand and proceeded to spill all the beans. “When I was ten years old, I took over baking my mom’s chocolate chip cookies. She loved them, though too much sugar made her queasy after chemo. She kept me company in the kitchen and gave me pointers I still use today—unsalted butter only, always add an extra quarter cup of flour, and refrigerate the dough for at least twenty minutes before putting it in a properly preheated oven. Cooking, baking, and books were my safe haven during my mom’s illness and my dad’s sadness.”
Hudson frowned. “I’m sorry, baby. How old were you when she passed away?”
“Fifteen,” I said. “My parents were in their midforties when they adopted me and?—”
“You’re adopted? I didn’t know that.”
I shrugged. “Mmm. It’s not news to me, but yes. My birth parents were forced to surrender me to the state or so the story goes. They were either neglectful or just bad people. My real parents, the ones who raised me, never went into gory detail. I was adopted officially at nine months old to a lovely older couple who’d never been able to have children of their own. They adored each other, and they adored me. They accepted me as is, too.”