Page 13 of The Sugar and Spice Kitchen

“Emily.” His voice followed her, low and even in the way that made her want to throw something.

“Goodnight, Cole.”

She pulled the pantry door nearly shut, leaving just enough of a gap for Nutmeg to find her, and sat down on the floor with her back against the shelving unit.

It took less than five minutes for Emily to realize that hiding in the pantry had been a terrible idea.

First her toes went cold. Then the tip of her nose. Before long, she was shaking so hard her teeth clicked together.

It was remarkable, really, how quickly the heat had drained from the bakery. She’d known it would get cold, but she hadn’t expected it to be a bone-deep chill that made every breath hurt.

When the pantry door creaked open, she assumed Nutmeg had finally emerged from wherever he was hiding.

But no.

Of course, it was Cole.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped inside carrying his turnout coat and the rest of his gear.

“Move over.”

She should have told him to go away.

Instead, she shifted. Cole lowered himself beside her and pulled her firmly against his chest before she could protest. He draped the heavy coat over them, trapping his body heat beneath it, then tucked the tablecloth around her legs.

Nutmeg appeared a moment later and curled into the hollow of her stomach, directly beneath Cole’s hand.

Emily went rigid.

Cole was warm. Solid. His chest pressed against her back; one arm wrapped securely around her waist, as if holding her close was the most natural thing in the world.

A wave of conflicting emotions slammed into her at once.

She hated this man.

At least, her mind did.

The rest of her seemed to have developed a completely different opinion.

Emily closed her eyes. She wasn’t going to analyze it. She wasn’t going to think about his hand against her stomach or the steady rise and fall of his chest behind her.

By morning, she would remember all the reasons she hated him.

That would fix everything. Right?

FOUR

COLE

Sunday, December 13th

A strip of morning light slipped beneath the pantry door, casting a silvery-gray line across the tile floor. Above them, the shelves were stacked with industrial-sized cans of pumpkin puree, jars of nuts, bags of powdered sugar, chocolate chips, and jugs of vanilla extract. The whole space smelled like cardboard and candy bars.

Cole had two seconds, if that, of pure ignorance, before last night came back to him all at once—what they’d done, how it had happened—and how spectacularly awful the night had ended.

Emily was still curled against him, her back pressed to his chest. One of his arms was wrapped around her waist. The other was bent above his head, his forearm serving as a pillow. His turnout coat had done its job, keeping them from freezing completely during the night.

He flexed his fingers.