I keep telling myself it can’t possibly be going well.
I mean, the man wears cufflinks that probably cost more than my industrial mixer.
So when I hear it—a loud bark of laughter—I nearly drop a piping bag.
No way.
That wasn’t just laughter.
That was a full, deep, real laugh.
The kind that vibrates in your chest and does things to your hormones.
Curiosity wins.
I tiptoe toward the swinging kitchen door and peek through the window.
Oh. My. God.
Eb is behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, forearms flexing as he rings up a line of customers like he’s done it his whole life.
He’s wearing a Santa hat.
And—oh my ovaries—he’s smiling.
Not his usual tight, polite CEO smirk.
A real smile. Bright. Boyish. Beautiful.
“Keep the change, Eb, and Merry Christmas,” one of the older regulars says, flirting shamelessly.
He laughs.
Laughs.
“I’ll drop it in the tip jar for Emery. But stop that flirting or you’re going to get me in trouble, Mrs. Kowalski.”
“Something tells me a man like you likes a little trouble, don’t you?” she fires back.
Oh my God, she’s blushing.
Mrs. Kowalski.
Who’s been married since the Carter administration.
Eb leans down slightly, grinning.
“Maybe just a little.”
I press a floury hand to my chest.
“He’s flirting with the retirees now,” I whisper to the cookie gods. “This is it. He’s officially broken my brain.”
Then—because apparently the universe wants to make sure I short-circuit completely—he starts singing.
I freeze.
He’s humming along to “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas,” low and rough and not even slightly off-key.
