“You carried me through a storm and then I didn’t see you again. You were hiding.”

They both chewed, savoring the subtle flavors of the fresh treats.

“I’m sorry about what happened.”

“Why? I lived, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but—”

She flicked flour in his direction, failing to strike him with the white powder.

“I said I wanted an adventure, didn’t I?” A big bite of cookie melted in her mouth. “Well, I got one.”

“Listen.” Clark clapped his hands together, ridding them of cookie dust and crumbs. “I promised someone I’d try this Christmas thing out, so what do I do?”

“Wanna help me make cookies?”

They didn’t need anymore, but with three more trays of cookie dough and time to kill, Kate could think of no better option than this one.

“Is that a thing people do?” Clark raised an eyebrow; Kate almost choked.

“You’re really out of the loop, there. Go into the other room and grab another one of these ornaments, will you?”

She raised the wire star she appropriated as a cookie-cutter. It glimmered in the low winter light. Clark left for the living room.

“You got it.”

Kate dressed herself in a mothballed apron. In the next room, rustling and tinkling of ornamental bells danced in the air as Clark searched for a wire star. She continued their conversation through the door, raising her voice just enough to be heard.

“You’re telling me you never made cookies around this time of year?”

A deep, masculine chuckle. “Are you fishing for my tragic backstory?”

“Only because I think you’ll bite.”

“You don’t want to hear it.”

He returned with the star in tow. Kate took her place at the long kitchen island, which looked like a tiny winter wonderland. Flour covered the surface like perfect snowcapped mountains.

“You’re admitting there is a tragic backstory.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to tell me.” Mr. Woodward, Clark’s uncle, was one of the kindest men Kate ever knew. As much as she liked to tease Clark about what he called his tragic backstory, she had a hard time believing she was opening up old wounds by asking after it. How could a man as good as Mr. Woodward allow someone as close to him as a nephew endure a miserable life? Kate assumed Clark had some kind of stigma associated with Christmas—maybe a girlfriend dumped him around the season or he was allergic to pine or something—but those were all easily solvable problems. If she could replace the sad memories with beautiful ones, maybe she could take away the lonely emptiness in his eyes. “I was thinking if I knew, maybe I could help.”