I mean, he’s good.
Of course, he’s good.
I can see him bobbing his head a little, that stupidly sexy half-smile on his lips while he counts change for a little boy buying one gingerbread cookie.
“Careful with that one,” Eb says, crouching down to hand the bag to the kid. “Too many bites and you’ll want the whole tray. Trust me.”
The kid giggles and runs back to his mom.
And I melt.
Completely.
The man I thought was allergic to joy is laughing with strangers and humming to Christmas carols while running my cookie shop like it’s the best day of his life.
Back in the kitchen, I lean against the counter, dazed and grinning like a lunatic.
“Marigold Santos,” I mutter to myself, “you are in so much trouble.”
Because the truth hits me then, as clear as the scent of sugar and butter in the air.
Eb Rogers isn’t just helping me.
He’s trying.
For Christmas.
Maybe for me.
And somewhere between the flour, the frosting, and his stupid perfect laugh, I realize—I might just be falling for this Badger after all.
Chapter 11
Eb
I can’t believe it when Marigold flips the sign on the door to Closed.
The day flew by.
And not in the miserable, grind-it-out, can’t-wait-to-go-home way I’m used to.
No, this was fun.
Actual, honest-to-Gods fun.
I don’t remember the last time I smiled this much—or the last time someone looked at me the way she did when I handed a customer a bag of cookies instead of a quarterly report.
My shirt is dusted with flour.
My hands smell like sugar and butter and frosting.
And for the first time in my life, I don’t hate that I’m a mess.
Marigold looks exhausted, but beautiful in that soft, glowing way that only happens when someone’s been doing something they love all day.
Her curls have fallen out of their bun, her cheeks are pink, and her eyes are shining.
“So, what’s left?” I ask, leaning in the doorway of the kitchen.
