How My Neighbor Stole Christmas
: Chapter 16

Dare I say a not-so-fake romance is in the biting air?

You caught that kiss; you saw that longing stare.

Lips were locked, and they both felt it all the way to their toes.

Now the question is, will they heat up? Nobody knows.

“This tastes like shit,” I say to Max as I toss the piece of fruitcake he cut for me into the trash.

“Yeah.” He scratches his head. “Wasn’t a fan of it either.”

“What the fuck are we going to do?” I ask. “We’re an hour away from the competition, and we can’t seem to bake a decent-tasting fruitcake to save our lives.”

“I think it might be the jam,” Max says. “Maybe we skip the jam and go for something more simple, more classic. Maybe we don’t need a secret ingredient and we should just hope that Tanya likes you enough to bypass this horrible tasting lump of cake. Which, speaking of horrible things, you never told me how the date went—you keep changing the subject.”

“I’m not changing the subject. I’m trying to figure out how to win this competition.” I stare down at our ingredients. “I know your mom said these candied cherries are what we need to use, but they have a waxy taste that’s very unappealing. Maybe we go with real ones.”

“Real ones have moisture, and they could make the cake soggy,” Max says.

“Given the fact that I nearly choked on the dryness of the cake we just made, we could use some moisture.”

“Maybe,” Max says, leaning against my kitchen counter. “So, we’ll do real cherries…oh, or we can do maraschino cherries.”

“There’s an idea. Everyone likes those.”

“And nothing screams Christmas like a maraschino cherry in a baked good.”

“Very true,” I say, gripping Max’s shoulder. “Okay, let’s run to the Myrrh-cantile and grab some cherries. And we’ll use the recipe that we found online.”

“The one on All-Recipes?” he asks.

“Yeah, seemed legit.”

“That’s risky, going in with a new recipe we’ve never tried,” Max says.

“Can’t be worse than what we just made. No offense to your mom, but that was shit.”

Max scratches his chin. “Yeah, it wasn’t great. Although…have you ever had a fruitcake that tasted good?”

“Never,” I answer.

“Exactly.”

“Okay, let’s pack up our supplies, grab the cherries, and then head on over to the school for the competition.”

Since we need to show our work in front of Tanya and demonstrate how well we can bake, the competition takes place in the K-12 school, in the gymnasium where they have portable convection ovens set up and baking stations ready to go. We provide the ingredients which are quickly looked over, and then we have three and a half hours to mix and bake. Max and I have been timing ourselves and so far we’ve hit the time limit, but the taste? Well, that’s been a miss.

I fill up a tote bag while Max does the same—me focusing on the ingredients, him focusing on the tools we’re going to need.

“So…about the date,” Max presses.

I roll my eyes. “Dude, there’s nothing to talk about,” I say. “We went out, we irritated each other, put on a show for the townspeople, and then went our separate ways.”

“Is that all that happened?” he asks with a lift of one brow.

Christ.

“Dude, if you know something, just say it.”

“You kissed her.” It’s a statement, not a question. Clearly, he’s been participating in the town chatter. And here I thought he might be better than that. But I guess since I’ve been avoiding the topic, he had to go somewhere else for the information.

“I didn’t kiss her because I wanted to,” I say. “I kissed her because Martha and Mae spotted us under some mistletoe and made us.”

“Uh-huh…and how was it?”

Unexpected.

Soft.

Fucking delicious.

A kiss that I can still feel now. A kiss that I wish I could forget, but for the life of me, every time I think about that night, I think of how her lips felt against mine, how they were tentative, but then forceful when I parted our mouths. I think about how I wish I’d have pulled her in closer, dug my fingers into her hair, and spent so much more time exploring her mouth rather than pulling away.

And of course, all these feelings and thoughts have maddened me because the last thing I want to be doing is thinking about Storee in that way, especially since the hate is still there.

The irritation.

The need to challenge her.

Beat her in this competition.

I don’t need thoughts of her mouth on mine weakening my plan of attack.

I shrug casually. “It was barely even a kiss. Our lips touched, and that was it. Seriously, everyone is making a big deal out of nothing.”

Max leans in. “I heard your eyes slowly opened after.”

“My eyes opened at a reasonable rate.”

“I also heard that you two stared at each other for a while once you broke apart.”

“Describe a while.”

“I don’t know, like you were looking into each other’s souls,” Max answers.

I shake my head. “You need to stay out of the gossip—you’re starting to get all starry-eyed like the rest of them.”

“So are you denying that you looked into her soul?” Max asks, completely ignoring me.

I prop my hand on the counter and glare at my best friend. “I did not stare into her soul. I barely even looked into her eyes. There was mistletoe, people were watching, and we kissed. Lips barely touched. There was nothing magical about it. More clinical if you removed the twinkle lights, music playing in the background, and the cooing onlookers.”

“So what you’re telling me is that the kiss meant nothing.”

“It meant absolutely nothing,” I say, keeping my expression still.

“And you’re not thinking about the kiss a few days later.”

“It was forgettable,” I say.

“So the crush you had on her, it didn’t ramp up?”

“Jesus Christ, Max. No!” I shout and then grab my tote bag of ingredients. “If I learned one thing from that date, it’s that my childhood crush was just that, a childhood crush. There’s nothing going on between us, and there isn’t a future for anything else. When I say that date was a one and done thing…I mean it.”

“Hey, Cole,” Storee says in a greeting as I set our bags on the baking station next to hers.

Is her hair different?

It looks different.

Not that I’d notice something like that…although if I did, it’s not because I stared into her soul or anything. It just looks…oh, maybe it’s because she’s not wearing a winter hat. So that’s her forehead.

Nice.

I mean…no, not nice.

I don’t care what her forehead looks like.

It’s just a forehead.

There’s nothing nice about it. It’s bland. Boring.

“I can see your forehead,” I say in greeting.

“What do you mean you can see my forehead?” she says as her hand covers it.

Yeah, what do you mean, Cole?

“It’s uh, it’s there.” I point to her forehead.

“Yes, people usually have foreheads.”

“Well, good for you on growing it,” I say with a nod and then turn to my ingredients, feeling my cheeks flame with embarrassment.

She leans closer to me. “If this is some sort of way to get under my skin, fake me out, and mess with my head, it’s not going to work. So you can take your forehead talk somewhere else.”

“Whatever you say,” I reply, keeping my head down, not wanting her to spot my red cheeks.

She grumbles something under her breath and then goes back to setting up her station. Max is filling out our ingredient form with Tanya, letting her know everything that’s involved in our fruitcake while I attempt to settle my racing heart.

And why is it racing, you might ask?

Don’t think it’s from seeing Storee, because that’s not the case at all. I’m nervous about the competition. As a last-minute item, Max grabbed pineapple and said it was a needed addition while we were at the Myrrh-cantile. I told him pineapple wasn’t in the recipe, but he’s seen it in others, and it was the ingredient we were missing. I think the only thing we’re missing is common sense in baking.

So yeah, nice try, but these nerves have nothing to do with Storee.

“And I’ll have you know,” Storee says, coming out of nowhere and invading my station, “I have an unbeatable fruitcake recipe. Aunt Cindy took first last year, and we’re replicating the same recipe.”

Great.

Just what I need to hear.

Especially when we just tossed pineapple into the mix.

But not wanting to show an ounce of fear, I turn toward her. “Yeah, well, does your fruitcake have pineapple in it?”

“It does,” she replies with a lift of her chin.

Huh, okay.

Maybe this won’t be so bad then.

“Dates?”

“If your fruitcake doesn’t have dates, then it’s not a fruitcake,” she counters.

“What about…uh…walnuts?”

“Face it, Cole, we have a good recipe and you know it, so you’re trying to throw me off with your forehead talk.”

Yup, that’s exactly what I was trying to do.

I wasn’t fumbling around, thinking about the kiss we shared, or how pretty she looks today, or the fact that the feelings I’ve tried to repress for a long time are miraculously starting to show up out of the goddamn blue.

It was a kiss, dickhead.

Get the fuck over it!

“It’s not going to work. So why don’t you worry about yourself and focus on not making Tanya gag rather than coming up with something stupid to distract me?”

“Well, you got me.” I shrug. “Guess I should leave your forehead alone.”

“Best you do.” She taps on my worktable. “Wishing you the worst of luck. I hope you burn the shit out of your fruitcake.”

I grip my chest. “The way you flirt, it really cuts me deep, Storee.”

“Did I hear flirting over here?” Tanya says as she walks up to us, a huge smile on her face.

“Trying not to,” I say, “but when she shows up to the competition looking beautiful, I can’t hold back.” I let out a sigh and tilt my head toward Tanya. “I think she’s trying to distract me, Tanya, so excuse me if my fruitcake is a little off today. I’m going to be fighting an inner war between paying attention to what I’m doing and trying to catch glimpses of her.”

Tanya gleefully looks between us. “Oh, after I heard about the kiss, I know what I’m dealing with. Don’t worry.” She winks in my direction. “I’ll take your crush into consideration.”

I press my hands together. “Thank you, Tanya. Now, to get my head in the game…shit, one more hug.”

I push off my workstation, walk over to an annoyed Storee, and pull her into a tight embrace. And just for added measure, I kiss the top of her head. “Good luck, babe.”

“Babe!” Tanya squeals. “Oh, I can’t take it.” She waves her hand in front of her face. “I need to tell Martha and Mae about this.” She hurries off, pulling her phone out of her pocket as she moves toward the back corner of the gym.

Storee pushes away from me, a look of disgust on her face. “Babe?”

“Thought it was a nice touch.” I smirk.

“If you get anything higher than third place in this Fruitcake Festivus, this entire system is rigged.”

“Why do you say that? You haven’t even tasted my fruitcake.”

“I don’t need to taste it to know it’s going to be terrible. I smelled burning cake from over the fence when you were apparently practicing.”

“That was on Max and him setting the timer wrong, nothing to do with our recipe.”

Also, we overfilled the pan, used a pan far too small, and the batter was dripping over the sides when we pushed down the toppings, but she doesn’t need to know about that.

“Either way, you have rigged this competition by playing with Tanya’s romantic heart. You should be eliminated.”

“Says the person whose aunt is being rolled in on a wheelchair right now, looking rather paler than she was the other night.”

Storee glances over her shoulder, catching sight of Cindy and Taran approaching. When she turns back around, she whispers, “This could be her last Christmas.”

“Bullshit,” I say. “Cindy has many more Christmases left in her. So don’t be throwing rocks at glass houses, Storee. If you’re not playing fair, neither am I. So…good luck, babe.” I wink, which causes her to huff and push me out of her workspace.

Her workspace that’s right next to mine.

“Kind of wishing you had a door to slam to separate us?” I ask.

“No, because with the way you’ve been working, you would probably hang mistletoe in the doorframe.”

“Ah, thinking about that kiss still?” I tsk at her. “I knew you would. I could tell from the hungry look in your eyes when we parted. If you want another one, you can just ask.”

Defiantly, she replies, “You know, I really hope you burn your finger.”

“Ah, and I hope you use salt instead of sugar.”

“Here’s to you tripping with your fruitcake in hand.”

“And cheers to you sprinkling your hair in your batter.”

Her anger spikes as she leans over the table and whispers, “I hate you.”

“Feeling is mutual…babe.”

Storee

“You look worried,” I say to Cole. He’s standing next to me, waiting to be judged by Tanya, who is currently taking a bite out of Jimmy’s burnt monstrosity. Just based off what it looks like, I will be shocked if Jimmy doesn’t get last place.

“I’m not worried,” Cole says as he rocks on his heels next to me. “Confident. You should be worried. Who puts mashed potatoes in their fruitcake?”

“The winner from last year does,” I say, still smirking over the look on Cole’s face when we pulled out the mashed potatoes.

It was an epic showdown of culinary skills, all five contestants in the kitchen, attempting to make the perfect fruitcake that people actually love to eat. From what I could see, Ursula went with candied everything—dates, walnuts, fruit. I fear she’s going to give someone a cavity with her fruitcake, which resembles more of a candy bar than an actual cake. Jimmy, well, we know where he went wrong. Dr. Pedigree went with a more…organic approach with all fresh ingredients, which could lack flavor but help with density. We shall see.

And then there were Cole and Atlas who were running around their kitchen space, sniping at each other, trying to figure out how much pineapple was too much pineapple. If I wasn’t so focused on what I was doing, I’d have sat back and enjoyed the show, because from what I could hear, it was hilarious.

I think at one point I heard Cole mutter to Atlas to stop being a little bitch about the pineapple but can’t be too sure.

“Storee, please bring your fruitcake to the judging table,” Tanya says.

Muttering so only I can hear him, Cole says, “Don’t trip.” Then he tacks on, “Good luck, babe.”

Such an idiot.

For good measure, I walk over to Aunt Cindy in her wheelchair, give her a quick kiss, and then carry the fruitcake to Tanya.

I know it’s good. I know we have a pretty solid chance at first place. I don’t have the slightest bit of worry inside of me.

I set the plate in front of Tanya and then take a step back. “This is Great-Aunt Cindy’s recipe, with mashed potatoes and all.”

Tanya smiles. “And maybe a dash of romance? I saw you sneaking peeks at your man.”

I hold back the eye roll and nod. “Of course, made with a dash of romance.”

“Ooo, I love it.”

She cuts a piece for herself and examines the loaf, the slice, the density. She sniffs, she rotates the cake, and when she finally takes a bite, she lets it sit on her tongue for a few seconds before she starts chewing.

The only tell of her enjoying it being a nod and the fact that she went in for seconds. She did not go in for seconds on Jimmy’s. I don’t think she even wanted to try his.

After a few moments of chewing, then swallowing, she picks up her pen, marks a few things in a folder that she keeps hidden from view, and then smiles up at me.

“Nicely done, Storee.”

“Thank you,” I say and then take my fruitcake back to my station.

I can feel Cole’s eyes on me, but I don’t give him the time of day as pride flits through me.

“Cole, I’d love to taste your fruitcake now.”

Love to taste it. Wow, favoritism much? I swear if he beats me on this one, I’m going to be livid.

Cole brings his fruitcake over to Tanya, and despite my mind telling me to focus on anything but his ass, my eyes take in his tight rear end that’s encased in his nicely worn jeans.

“This is my take on the fruitcake. Made with maraschino cherries, not candied, as well as pineapple, dates, and walnuts.”

“Looks great,” Tanya practically coos. She slices into it. “Wow, what a great cut.”

What a great cut? Is this a piece of steak or a cake?

Seriously, Tanya. Sure, he’s a handsome man who apparently knows how to work the crowd to his advantage, but she can’t see through his tactics?

In disgust, I watch Tanya eat his fruitcake…taking three bites, Cole chatting her up the entire time. What happened to him being the grumpy dick? How is he so friendly all of a sudden? How is it he can be grunting out a response one day, and the next be the chattiest one in town?

After what feels like forever, Tanya thanks him, and he carries his fruitcake back to the table. I will be taste-testing that thing and comparing it to mine. I will have the final say in all of this, even if I don’t get to make the final decision.

Tanya goes through her notebook, tallying up points, assessing who she wants to assign places to while I wait with bated breath to see if we won.

“Whatever happens, I still want to go on that second date,” Cole says next to me like the jackass that he is. “Maybe you can make me some fruitcake.”

“I’m making you nothing.”

I fold my hands in front of me, trying to look like I’m the happiest person in the room despite the irritation pulsing through me.

“And here I thought we could have a cozy evening together.”

“I’m invoking the no-talking rule,” I say.

“On the date? Well, if we don’t talk, then there’s only one other thing we can do…”

I turn to him and catch the waggle of his eyebrows. “Are you a child?”

“For the sake of dating you? I sure as hell hope not.”

“Oh my God, you’re irritating,” I whisper, just for him to put his arm around me again and bring me in close to his chest.

“I know.”

Tanya takes that moment to look up and catches us close together. Her smile grows even larger as she finishes up her notes.

“I swear if you win this, I’m going to throw a temper tantrum. I very well might toss my mixing bowl at your head.”

“At me?” he asks quietly. “But then how could I make you weak in the knees with my kisses if I’m unconscious?”

“You did not make me weak in the knees,” I shoot back.

“I felt you waver.”

“There was no wavering.”

“A little bit. I steadied you.”

“Are you freaking delusional?” I hiss as Tanya stands and walks in front of her desk. Bob Krampus joins her, and the room quiets down as Bob takes the results from Tanya.

He clears his throat, looks through his spectacles and then out to the crowd. “It seems as though we have a verdict. Coming in fifth place, we have…Jimmy Short.”

No surprise there.

His fruitcake belongs in the compost.

The crowd lightly cheers as Jimmy kicks the ground, clearly disappointed in himself.

“In fourth place we have…” Bob pauses as he attempts to read the card. Confused, he confers with Tanya who nods. “Sorry about that. In fourth place, we have Ursula.”

Damn it. I wish Cole was fourth, but what can you do? Ursula gave Tanya a brick of candy.

“And in third place,” Bob continues, “ahh, our lover of the week, Cole.”

A large grin stretches across my face as I turn toward him and give him a gentle pat on the back, looking like the ever-doting crush. He smiles down at me and then brings his attention back to Bob.

Either he’s a particularly good actor, or he agrees with his placement.

Either way, if we can pull ahead with the win on this, it will give us a significant lead.

“And our runner up is…” Bob pauses for dramatic effect. “Dr. Pedigree. Giving the win for the second year in a row to Team Cindy!”

Now…if I wasn’t being judged on my Christmas spirit, this is what I’d do with this news: I’d do a set of three cartwheels while yelling yippee! I’d finish right in front of Cole and then shimmy so hard that my boobs would pop right out of my bra, but I wouldn’t care because I won. I beat him…him and his pineapple debacle and forehead distraction.

But since I’m being watched very carefully, I smile, clap, and offer congratulations to the rest of the group, then walk over to Aunt Cindy and give her a hug because we took this one. I knew we would. It was the mashed potatoes.

“Well done, everyone. We do have some new leadership in the overall competition, though,” Bob says. “In first place, our winner for today is Storee with forty-three points.”

“I’m so proud of you,” Aunt Cindy says, pulling me into a hug again. “And serves them right, trying to mess with us.”

I chuckle and lift up from her.

“In second place, we have Cole and his holly jolly sidekick, Atlas, with thirty-seven points.”

The boys give each other pats on the back and…are they waving to the crowd? Good lord.

“In third, we have Ursula with thirty-four points, following with a tie at twenty-three points each between Jimmy and Beatrice.” Bob removes his spectacles and continues, “Nothing is set in stone, though, and the rankings can change with one single competition. With our coveted candy cane-making competition next, I have a feeling the tides will turn. So good luck to our Kringle-ees and ho-ho-ho! Merry Christmas!”

The crowd offers a “Merry Christmas” as well and then starts dispersing. I take that moment to turn to Cole, a smile on my face. “How’s the view from second?”

“Not bad,” he says, his teeth pulling over his lip.

“Ew, don’t be a pervert,” I say, pushing at his shoulder.

“You’re the one who asked.”

“Yeah, and I wasn’t talking about my backside.”

“Shame.”

“Stop that,” I say, getting closer. “The fake flirting.”

“Why? You getting confused?”

“No, but you’re annoying. I liked you better when you were a grump. This…this act you’re putting on is frankly inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate?” he asks with a raised brow.

“Yes, you are—”

“Wonderful fruitcakes,” Tanya says, coming up to us. “Storee, how could I not pick Cindy’s for first? It’s easily the best I’ve ever had, and you executed it so brilliantly.”

Switching from irritated to happy within a blink of an eye, I say, “Thank you, Tanya. That means a lot to the both of us. I know how hard Aunt Cindy has worked on that recipe. I’m glad I could bring it to life.”

“You did a wonderful job.” Tanya then turns to Cole with a warm smile. “Cole, I was shocked with yours. Honestly, I expected a Jimmy-type fruitcake from you two and that’s not what I got at all. I think the only thing that lowered you on points was that there was a lot of pineapple, which took it in a more tropical direction instead of Christmas. But I will say this, if I was served your fruitcake while celebrating Christmas in Hawaii, I would have been absolutely tickled.”

“Thank you, Tanya. And thanks for the note—we will have to go back to the drawing board and refine.”

She pats him on the shoulder. “Great showing, though, for it being your first time with a change in recipe, and I have to admit I was grateful you didn’t make me eat Atlas’s mom’s recipe. She thinks the jam makes it, but she couldn’t be more wrong.”

Cole smirks. “I told her the same thing.”

“Oh, you naughty boy.” Tanya laughs and then waves. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

“You too,” I say as Tanya takes off.

Cole turns to Atlas. “I fucking told you it was too much pineapple.”

Atlas, with his hands in his pockets, nods. “Yup, you were right, dear.”