Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 36643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 183(@200wpm)___ 147(@250wpm)___ 122(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 183(@200wpm)___ 147(@250wpm)___ 122(@300wpm)
And I cut her off.
Cut them off.
Maybe a week ago, I could have convinced myself that I was just busy building the career I’d always wanted to. It wasn’t personal. I was preoccupied. They understood, right?
Now that I’ve spent the night in Clara’s spare room and woke up to the muted sound of Christmas music playing downstairs, I ache for all I’ve missed.
Christmas was our favorite. We lived for that time of year. Our parents went all out with the decorations, traditions, and the festive food. God, I’ve missed the food.
My stomach grumbles in irritation and I can’t help but chuckle. I lived off coffee, the occasional hurried lunch, and leftovers for years. Who had time for cooking when there was work to be done? Since work is no longer a worry of mine, I’m eager to cook something worth eating. After a quick shower, I make my way downstairs to find Clara wrestling with a Christmas tree. She’s still in her pajamas—a cute red and green striped onesie that reminds me of our childhood.
“Need help?” I say, arching an eyebrow at her.
She abandons the tree and swipes a hand over her forehead. “It’s being difficult.”
Since I’m taller and bigger, I’m able to get the tree assembled quickly and easily. The pleased smile on her face makes my chest ache. God, I’ve missed her.
“I’m going to go get ready for the event,” she tells me. “We can decorate until it’s time to go.”
I wave her off and then make my way to the kitchen. Clara’s cabinets are stocked with tons of baking ingredients. After a quick search on the internet, I find a recipe for cranberry-orange ricotta toast. It’s a ten-minute recipe but sounds pretty good. I toast our bread and then smear ricotta cheese all over the slices. Then, I zest an orange to give it color and tang. I spoon some homemade cranberry jam I found in the fridge over the top of the ricotta. All that’s left is to drizzle on some honey and sprinkle a bit of rosemary and salt.
A wave of happiness nearly knocks me off my feet. I’d forgotten just how happy creating fun, festive foods could be. It makes me miss my stepmom. Yolanda planted the love of cooking and baking in me at just ten years old. I’ll need to get out to see her, Dad, and my little sisters.
Guilt tries to needle its way in, but I shove it away, choosing to focus on making some coffee. I cut the toast into cute triangles and arrange them on a snowman shaped cheeseboard. To fancy up the coffee, I froth the creamer and dust the tops with cinnamon. By the time Clara returns with a towel tied around her head, breakfast is ready.
“Oooh,” she says, delight in her voice. “How fun!”
I grin at her because she’s right. This is fun. Apparently, I’ve been missing fun for quite some time now. We take our seats at the table and try my newest creation. It’s a perfect combination of savory and sweet. Devouring our breakfast only takes a couple of minutes. Clara licks a bit of honey off her plump bottom lip and grins at me.
“That was amazing. I think I’ll get used to having you around again.” Her brown eyes twinkle. “I’ve missed you.”
I nod, swallowing down the ball of emotion in my throat. “I missed you too, sass.”
Her cheeks turn pink and a giggle escapes her. “God, you haven’t called me that since I was like sixteen.”
“Has it really been that long?”
The slight frown that now mars her face makes me feel like a dick. I’m going to make it up to her. I may have no control over my career and the twist my life recently took, but I do have control over this. Maybe this was meant to happen so I could restore my relationship with my family.
I end up cleaning the kitchen while she finishes getting ready. After enjoying another cup of hot coffee while watching snow flutter down outside, I decide to put the lights on her tree. Eventually, Clara comes back down, but I’m not ready.
For a brief second, I forget she’s my stepsister. Her makeup is artfully done, accentuating her full lips and big brown eyes, and her long brown hair sits in loose waves in front of her dainty shoulders. It’s the outfit that has me reeling. Tight black leggings hug her toned legs and a pink sweater with a huge snowflake on the front barely covers her breasts, showing off her taut stomach.
“You’re not going out like that, are you?” I blurt out, sounding much like an asshole.
Her pretty plucked eyebrows knit together. “What’s wrong with this? I love this sweater.”
Can it actually be classified as a sweater? It’s missing half the material.
“It’s just, I don’t know,” I stammer, unable to look away from the smooth skin of her stomach. “Won’t you be cold? Isn’t this event outdoors?”