Fuck me. The mall that houses this particular Target is the image of Christmas spirit. The walls are decked with wreaths and string lights. The music is a constant loop of overplayed holiday songs. Everyone is wearing red and green.

The store is better. Its yellow fluorescent lights and shiny white floor give it a certain timeless, placeless quality. But the decorations, God, the decorations. There are cardboard cutouts of trees and smiling kids unwrapping presents.

I grab a big red cart and lead Blake straight to the Holiday section in the back.

Blake is behind me, but he's not really here. He's off someplace far away. Why do I put up with his stubbornness? I should have forced him to go home.

There are about a dozen different plastic trees on a display three feet off the ground. Truth be told, I love all of them. None of them smell like pine, but each is a pleasant shade of forest green. There's something nice about building a tree, picking exactly where the branches go and how they turn. Maybe it's enough to make Blake feel in control again.

His expression is inscrutable. I take a deep breath, willing myself to give up on understanding what's going through his head.

I point to the tree in the back corner. It's the smallest option. "How about that one?"

He nods. Without a word, Blake finds the large box containing the correct model, lifts it, and places it in the cart.

"Is there anything you want to talk about?" I ask.

"You need ornaments."

True. Those are in the next aisle. There are dozens of choices, from Star Wars figurines to baby angels. Blake picks out a set of round ornaments in bright, metallic colors. They're much more electric than anything in his apartment, but the slight silver sheen will fit in well.

His gaze goes to a cracked ornament on the ground. He picks him up and examines the pieces. It's broken, absolutely, and it's sharp enough to cut someone pretty badly.

Something flares in his eyes, a memory, but this time, I don't push it. I offer my hand and he takes it.

"That should be enough," I say.

Finally, our gazes meet. There's a lightness in his eyes, like he's pushed past the part that hurts.

"Candy canes," he says. "And string lights."

"You're very thorough given that your assistant does all your shopping."

"Who do you think gives her the list?"

He drags his fingertips over my cheek. It's as comforting as the first time he did it. I lean into his touch, soaking in everything I can about him. He's hurting, but he's still so concerned with making sure I'm okay.

He presses his lips to my forehead. "What else do you need?"

"Stuff for cookies. A mix, a rolling pin, cookie cutters, sprinkles, icing."

He softens. "If we're making cookies, we're making cookies from scratch."

We fill the cart with necessary ingredients and tools. It's completely normal, like the thousands of times I came here with Lizzy.

After I pay, we meet Jordan on the street outside the mall. There's plenty of room in the trunk for the plastic tree's box, which means the limo is all ours.

Instead of talking, I rest my head on his shoulder, nestling my body into his. He runs his fingertips through my hair with a soft, gentle touch. It's a perfect respite. I can feel his heartbeat and hear his breath. He's close, and he's warm, and he's mine.

The drive is over too fast. Jordan insists on helping with the bags. After everything is on the sidewalk, Blake shakes his hand.

"You're off at midnight tonight for three weeks. I don't want to hear a peep from you," Blake says.

Jordan nods.

"Did Ashleigh speak to you about your bonus?"

"Yes, sir. It was very generous. Thank you. Merry Christmas."

Blake doesn't frown. That's something.

Jordan turns to me. "And Merry Christmas to you, Ms. Wilder. It's been a pleasure getting to know you this year."

"Merry Christmas." Suddenly, it occurs to me how often people utter these two words. Every time I've been in a store in the last two months, the cashier thanked me with a Merry Christmas. Every other person I've seen the last two weeks said goodbye with a Merry Christmas.

Even in a city filled with people who celebrate other religious holidays, Merry Christmas is everywhere.

It must be hard to hate everything about the holiday.

There's no signs of displeasure on Blake's face. No anger or frustration or sadness. If anything, he's happy.

He leans down and kisses me. "We have cookies to bake."

I fight my urge to jump up and clap my hands. Screw it. I clap my hands together and whisper, "Yay."

He smiles, his eyes filling with affection.

It's a pain lugging everything into the elevator then into the living room. Blake scans the apartment like he's trying to figure where the tree will be the least offensive. I point to the corner behind the dining table. He nods and leaves the box there.

I get to work unloading the baking supplies and measuring the dry ingredients.

In minutes, the counters are already coated in a white dust, a mix of flour and sugar. Blake takes in the mess with a look of horror but he doesn't make a verbal objection.

"Did you ever bake cookies?" I ask.

"Never."

"Really?"

He nods.

"Preheat the oven to 350. And dust the cutting board with flour. The wood one."

"At your service."

I have to clear my throat to keep from groaning. I'm getting all sorts of mental images and not the kind that fit on a panel.

"Something on your mind, Kat?" His lips curl into a smile.

"The only thing on my mind is the delicious taste of cookies."

Blake's eyes go to the bowl. "I'm not an expert, but I believe you need eggs and butter."

"And vanilla."

His smile spreads until it's ear to ear. He presses his lips to mine. They don't taste like vanilla anymore, just like Blake. Heat rushes through my body. My knees buckle. I have to grab onto the counter to keep my balance.

When the kiss breaks, Blake follows all my commands. I add the wet ingredients and stir the batter until it's smooth. He steals the spoon from my hand, scrapes a bit of batter onto his finger, and holds it out to me like he's offering a taste.

I wrap my lips around his finger, lapping up the batter with my tongue. It tastes like sugar and vanilla. Then like his skin. My head swims with ideas.

Blake drags his finger across my lower lip. The touch sends a spark straight to my core. I want him now but I'm not about to abandon my task.

I clear my throat. "You really shouldn't eat raw batter. The eggs can give you salmonella poisoning."

He laughs, a big full belly laugh. It lights up something in me. It lights up everything in me.

"I appreciate your caution." He digs his finger into the bowl of batter and brings his finger to my mouth.

I lick the batter off him then suck on his finger. His eyelids press together. A tiny groan escapes his lips. But he stays in control, dragging his fingertip over my lips then down my neck.

I take a deep breath to contain the desire coursing through my body. "I take it that you enjoy baking cookies."

He nods.

"Then get to work." I fold my arms, trying my best look of intimidation. "Dust the cutting board with flour so we can roll out the dough."

"Yes, ma'am."

"It's Miss Wilder, not 'ma'am.'"

"It's not 'Miss' for long." He traces the outline of my engagement ring.

He sprinkles flour over the cutting board. I plop the cookie dough on top of it and grab the rolling pin. Blake positions himself behind me, placing his hands over mine, leaning into me as I roll out the dough.

My hands go forward. My torso follows. It presses my ass against his crotch. We could easily be having sex here if it weren't for the clothes and the flour.

It's very hard to stay focused on cultivating holiday spirit, but I manage. I find the cookie cutters and make three sugar cookie snowmen. Blake cuts out two stars and places them on the baking sheet next to my snowmen.

There's just enough room for a few more. I press the scraps of batter into a ball, roll it flat, and reach for the Christmas tree-shaped cookie cutter.

Something pierces my skin. Ow. My thumb is bleeding all over the clean white batter. I bring it to my mouth and suck on it. It eases the pain.

Blake looks me over with caution.

"It doesn't hurt," I say.

"I'll get you a bandage." He takes a step toward the bathroom. "You've found a unique way to avoid food coloring."

The batter is stained red. There's something familiar about it and about his words.

My mom said something like that. It was a long time ago. I was helping her bake. Lizzy had the snowman cookie cutter and I didn't want to wait my turn. I improvised and used a knife to cut a crude snowman shape. Only my grip slipped and I cut my finger so deep we had to go to the ER.

Every step of the way, my mom was sweet and attentive. My dad was out on some errand. He must have rushed to meet us at the ER, but he was still calm.

I was never scared, not really. I knew it would be okay, that my parents would protect me.

My eyes flutter closed. I'm back in the ER again, only it's right after the accident. I'm not calm. I'm terrified. The nurse is giving me the bad news, that mom and dad are gone, that Lizzy is in the ICU. I'm running down the halls without any awareness of my legs moving, then staring through the glass window watching her heart rate on the monitor.

I was terrified she was going to die. Not just for her sake, but because I couldn't bear to lose her. I couldn't bear to be alone.

My legs go weak. I press my back against the fridge and slide down, all the way to the floor. I'm still here, in Blake's apartment, but I'm powerless and terrified all the same.

It's too easy to lose everything that matters.

What if I lose Blake too?

A tear stings my eyes. There's no use in fighting it. I pull my knees into my chest and dig my fingers into the rough fabric of my jeans.

There are footsteps, but I don't look up. Then there are arms around me. Blake slings his arm under my knees, carries me to the couch, and lays me down on my back.

He runs his finger along my collarbone.. No words. What good would words do? They won't bring back my parents. They won't bring back Meryl. They won't ease this.

I finally manage to blink my eyes open. He's staring at me protectively. He holds up a bottle of anti-bacterial cream. I nod as if to give him permission.

Blake is tender as he cleans and treats my minor wound. He does it with ease, like he's treated plenty of wounds before.

He has treated plenty of wounds before.

The thought tears at my gut.

His fingers brush my cheek. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm scared."

"Of what?"

"Losing you." I throw my head back to see out the window. It's still blinding white. "I lost almost everything once. I don't know if I can do it again."

He slides onto the couch next to me. His fingers go to my chin and he tilts me so we're eye to eye. "Would you like to discuss it?"

I shake my head.

"How about get your mind off it?"

His eyes flash. He's not offering to watch a movie or play a game. At least not a conventional game.

"We need to put the cookies in the oven," I say.

He smiles. "How are you so able to put other things ahead of what you want?"

I've been doing it a long time. Not as much anymore, but it's a hard habit to break.

"I'll put them in the oven after I take care of you." He presses his lips against my forehead. "Do you want to rest?"

"No."

"Do you want a release?"

I don't hesitate. "Yes."

"Then sit up straight and unzip your jeans."