Jack’s mouth is softer than I expect. Sweet. The lingering taste of her praline mocha and maple bacon donut. But her hands are just as strong as I imagined, anchoring me until I feel elemental. My feet are deeply rooted beneath me, solid and unmoving, but when her tongue gently presses against the seal of my lips, I feel entirely capable of blowing away in the winter wind like the flakes that drift around us. The tip of her tongue presses against my lips until I open for her, like I’ve opened for her all day.

My skin is made of fire and my bones are made of water at the feeling of Jack’s mouth and Jack’s breath and Jack’s body beneath my hands, beneath her clothes, arched with wanting. This loud, brash cyclone of a woman goes quiet and still in my arms, kissing me like it matters too much.

We break apart to breathe, and our glasses get stuck on each other until we carefully pry them apart. Then we burst into laughter. “You didn’t make me wait long,” Jack says, her voice somehow both rough and tender. I want to open Clip Studio and find the right color to capture the feeling of Jack’s voice. Cerulean like my scarf, maybe. Umber like her eyes.

I shake my head, marveling at the snowflakes in her hair. “No, I didn’t. What’s it called?”

Jack eyes me. “Kissing…?”

“Your bakery.”

“Oh.” Her strong hands are still on my body. “Uh. I’m thinking about calling it… the Butch Oven?” She squints one eye and bites her bottom lip. “Is that a stupid name?”

“Of course not.”

“It’s supposed to be a pun. Like on Dutch oven.”

“I get it, Jack.”

She presses her forehead to mine. We’re touching in so many places. Touching has never felt this easy to me. “But butch and Dutch are an imperfect rhyme. They look like they should fit together, but they don’t actually sound the same, so I’m worried people won’t get it.”

I wrap my arms around her waist until my fingers hook together in the back. Her nerves have nothing to do with the name. “You could do it, you know. You could turn this place into something truly special.”

She folds herself in closer, until we’re two perfectly aligned pieces, slotted together in the snow. “I’m not like you, Elle. I don’t make ten-year plans. I don’t have a bullet journal filled with life goals I’m checking off one by one. How would I ever open a bakery by myself?”

I reach out for her hand again, stitching our fingers back together. “Maybe you don’t have to do it by yourself.”

Chapter Sixteen

Thursday, December 22, 2022

“Why did I have to find out about my daughter’s engagement from Instagram?”