Wrapped in You by Kate Perry

did that mean? She glanced at all the ingredients Mason had lined up on the counter and began to feel cross-eyed. “Maybe I need help.”
    “Here.” Mason slid a carton of eggs toward her. “You crack these. I always get the shells in the mixture.”
    “Always?” she asked, relieved that she had a specific task. She wasn’t much of a cook, but she could crack eggs. “Do you bake cookies a lot?”
    “I used to, before I moved to San Francisco. My grandmother loved to bake, especially during the holidays.” He measured flour in a cup and then dumped it all into a strange contraption that let the flour pass out the bottom into a bowl as he squeezed the handle. “Every year she made dozens of kinds of cookies. She’d spend a week, strategizing and deciding which recipes to bake, and then she’d spend the next couple weeks making them all. It was more carefully thought out than most military operations.”
    She picked up the last egg. “And you helped her.”
    “From the time I could keep my balance standing.” He flashed a smile at her. “The holidays were special in our household. Christmas Eve we’d have a huge dinner with a baked ham. The canned corn was my favorite. I’d bury it in my mashed potatoes like it was treasure only I knew about. After dinner Grandma would bring out trays of cookies in all shapes and colors.”
    “I can picture it.” Trudy leaned against the counter, wiping her hands on her apron.
    “My description doesn’t do the reality of it justice. It was like being offered all of Willy Wonka’s delights.” He shook his head, his gaze distant, in the past. “Then we’d sing carols and open presents. That was my sister’s favorite part, but my favorite was sitting next to my grandma and eating the cookies we’d worked so hard to make.”
    “She must miss you,” Trudy said softly.
    “I miss her.” His smile became sad. “Grandma passed away four years ago. My dad, mom, sister, and I make cookies together now, along with my sister’s husband and their two brats. It’s fun, even if it’s not the same.”
    Trudy blinked, startled to feel the prickle of tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, lowering her head so he wouldn’t see what a sap she was.
    Mason added a few things into the bowl and mixed them. “It’s a part of life, right? People come, people go. You have to savor them while you have them. How about you?”
    “What about me?”
    “Does your family have traditions?” He handed her the bowl and pointed to the eggs. “Do you guys bake cookies?”
    “Ha!” She dumped the eggs in and began mixing it all. “Mother makes fruitcake that could pass as a weapon. I think it’s more to spite her neighbors than to share goodwill.”
    “Your family doesn’t mind that you aren’t there with them?” he asked, his turn to lean against the counter.
    “They’re always busy with Matilda during the holidays. It’s the only time of the year she goes home to visit.” She held the bowl out. “I think it’s good.”
    He sprinkled a few things in and added a couple dashes of other things. “Mix that. I’ll get the roller.”
    After she finished stirring, he scooped out the dough and plopped it onto a floured surface. He held out the roller. “You get to do the honors.”
    “Okay.” She took it hesitantly.
    “It’s easy, just flatten it to an even thickness.”
    Right. She began to work the dough.
    “So your sister is in Rwanda?” he asked after a moment.
    “Yes. Matilda is saving the world, one person at a time.” She hoped she didn’t sound bitter, because her sister really did do amazing things for humanity.
    “She sounds”—Mason frowned—”what’s the word?”
    “Special?” she offered, smacking the roller onto the dough.
    “That’s a word I guess, but not the one I was looking for. You need to make it a little thinner.” He stepped up behind her, his body pressed to hers, and he placed his hands on top of hers. “Put your weight