Page 34 of The Shift Between Us (Covewood #2)

Chapter Sixteen

Olivia

“ W hat the heck was that, Olivia?” I whisper to myself and cover my face with my hands.

I allowed myself to drink him in. I took in his face, how his brown eyes are more like the color of chocolate swirled with caramel and sprinkled with gold flakes.

Above his eyes sit two, slightly too thick, dark brows.

One has a little scar sitting above it, a shade paler than the rest of his skin, a reminder of a hot summer afternoon when we were diving off the dock by Ryland’s cabin, and Luke had slipped and busted his head against the wood.

Luke always seems to keep a small amount of stubble on his jawline, chin, and around his lips, but he never grows it much longer than that so I can see his one dimple that likes to make an appearance when he smiles.

Then I admired his bare chest, every inch of carved muscles, the dusting of dark hair on his tanned skin.

He stood there, like a piece of art left for me to examine, flawed and rough around the edges but treasured for those little qualities, and I just stared at him. Luke is somehow perfectly imperfect, and it took my breath away.

I swear on my gingerbread-cinnamon rolls that, with the exception of my teenage years, I’ve never allowed myself to look at Luke like that.

Maybe in a my-best-friend-is-cute, unassuming sort of way, but not this sort of unnerving attraction.

He looks different to me now, and I wonder how I could’ve missed these beautiful pieces of him.

I’m splashing my face with cold water for a second time. I’ve allowed this whole fake-dating thing to get under my skin, and I need a moment to build my wall back up, but I don’t get that because there's a knock on the bathroom door, and Jerrica is saying that Nonni is hollering for me.

“I’ll be right there!” I shout.

I hear Luke and Jerrica chattering as they leave the room. Once I hear the door shut, I slowly push the bathroom door open, peeking into the room to make sure I’m alone. I am, thankfully.

I tug the Christmas sweater over my head and replace it with an olive-green one that has a row of small Christmas trees that I embroidered in the center of it.

I go back into the bathroom to wipe away the mascara from under my eyes and apply a fresh coat.

As I fluff my hair, trying to refresh its curls, I point a finger at my reflection.

“Now listen here. You can’t catch feelings for Luke. That is not allowed. No matter how stupidly attractive he is, we can’t think about Luke that way.”

Finally, once I’m about as ready as I can be, I make my way through the house and find everyone gathering in the dining room.

In front of each chair sits an empty plate, several icing options and plain sugar cookies that have been cut into Christmas-themed shapes.

I inhale the scent of sugar and golden butter .

Baking has made me happy ever since I was a little girl.

My grandmother taught me before she passed away when I was young, and then my mother took over, teaching me everything that she knew until I was able to take off and do things on my own.

I knew at a young age that baking was what I wanted to do with my life.

I’m proud of the fact that I’ve poured everything I could into my business: my sweat, tears, and on several clumsy occasions, my blood (yes, I made sure to dispose of the bloody food).

It’s my safe place, where I want to be no matter how I’m feeling, because I know it will always make me happy.

That is the type of comfort I hope decorating these cookies will bring to everyone that’s here.

Luke’s eyes light up as he watches me walk into the room, and my knees betray me as they wobble with each step.

His lips quirk into a grin, and my traitorous eyes focus on the hard line of his jaw and land on the full curve of his lips.

How in the world had I missed that perfect curve?

And now that I’ve noticed, I can’t see anything else.

My body is double-crossing me, and it’s not fair.

Luke had changed into a gray long-sleeved shirt that is tightly pulled over his broad shoulders and pulled up to his elbows, revealing his delicious forearms. His blue jeans are riding low on his hips, rolled up to hit just above his brown shoes.

He looks good. Cookies-fresh-out-of-the-oven good. My-homemade-cream-cheese-frosting good.

Olivia, we just talked about this. You need to chill.

He walks over to me, stopping to take my hands into his. His eyes drop down to my lips for a second before dancing around my face.

“You look beautiful.” His words grip my heart.

“All I did was change my sweater,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Someone wise once told me that I should be with someone that gives me the same feeling as when I see my food coming toward me in a restaurant.” His expression softens as I snort at the memory, because that someone was me. “Here we are, in a room full of cookies, and all I can do is look at you .”

I try not to reveal how his words are affecting me. But he’s saying everything I wish my exes would have said to me, and it's coming from the one man I can’t have in that way, with words that are fake.

You. Are. Fake. Dating, I remind myself.

“Now I understand how you’ve been able to woo all those old girlfriends of yours.”

I know he’s putting on a show for his family, that he’s saying all the right things because he’s pretending to be my boyfriend.

His brows furrow, like what I said offended him. “I’m not trying to woo you, Liv. I’m appreciating you.”

“You’re appreciating me?” I question, my brow lifting.

“Yes. Because your exes have done nothing but make you feel like you’re too much or not enough. I’m here to prove to you that you’ve always been enough. You’ve just been unappreciated.”

He gives my hand a gentle squeeze before brushing his thumb across my pulse point.

His touch shifts until he’s tracing each of my knuckles and the dips in between each finger.

Goosebumps erupt all the way up my shoulders.

I have to force myself to swallow back the words I so badly want to admit out loud to someone other than myself.

That I’m starting to see him differently and it scares me.

His eyes pierce into mine, transforming into something softer. “Come on. Let’s go decorate some cookies.”

I’m laughing so hard there are tears in my eyes.

In my hands is the ugliest cookie I’ve ever seen—it’s lumpy, with icing that looks like it was applied during a minor earthquake.

Two mismatched candy eyes stare in opposite directions, and a crooked smile is sliding slowly down its face.

Luke is giving me his sternest glare because the ugly cookie is his, which only makes me laugh more.

“It’s like a Picasso gingerbread man,” Jerrica says, patting Luke on the shoulder and giving him a pity smile.

“This one is my favorite,” I add, holding up a round cookie with what I think is supposed to be two stick figures standing on snow. I look over at where his five-year-old cousin, Emma, is sitting and see that even her cookies were easier to decode compared to Luke’s.

“I’m glad, because that’s supposed to be us.”

I press my lips together, holding in another laugh. I’m just poking fun at him because this feels normal, like we’re drifting back into the comfort of the friend-zone without anyone else noticing.

I lift up another cookie. “And this one looks like a melted snowman.”

He holds my gaze for another moment, a wrinkle between his brows, before he replies, “Because it is.”

“Oh.” I chuckle, and he bumps his shoulder into mine, the tiniest lift in the corner of his mouth.

“What is this one supposed to be?” he asks.

“It’s a gingerbread man going on vacation.”

“Really?”

“Yes!” I giggle.

“I made mine into an Oompa Loompa ,” Jerrica announces proudly, showing us her orange gingerbread man with green hair. We’re both laughing, and the sound uncoils the tension that was building inside of me from before.

Luke nudges me with his elbow and nods his chin toward his grandmother. “Nonni! Your cookies are beautiful!” I exclaim, impressed with her delicate snowflake designs.

“It’s from years of experience.” She smiles proudly.

“Lots and lots of years because you’re old,” Uncle Leo adds, and we all laugh as Nonni swats at him playfully.

“Oh, you hush!”

Thirty minutes later, we’re all covered in colorful frosting, sugar still dusting the counter, as we clean up the cookie chaos we created. Somehow, that turns into a heated debate over the ultimate Christmas movie.

“Oh, come on. You all can’t deny that it’s Miracle on 34th Street ! It’s a classic,” Aunt Andy argues.

Jerrica folds her arms over her chest. “No, because it’s Home Alone . Both one and two.”

I want to agree with her because it’s my favorite, but before I can, Luke pipes in and adds, “Everyone knows that Die Hard is the best Christmas movie.”

“Of course you’d think that. You’re a cop,” Uncle Leo snarks.

“Have you guys ever noticed how evil Kevin McCallister is? He enjoys inflicting pain on people,” Luke argues.

“He was protecting his house,” Jerrica tosses, rolling her eyes.

Rebecca adds, “He stays calm and collected before nearly killing a man with a paint can.”

Luke laughs, and I light up at the sound, even if he is dissing my favorite Christmas movie. “He casually hurls a thousand-pound tool chest down the stairs at the guys, throws bricks off a rooftop at them, and purposely burns himself just to feel something.”