She heard herself inhale.
“I…” She reached out and touched the edge of one of the boxes. “I wanted to tell you I have some ideas, too.”
He blinked. Then an unguarded grin lit up his face. “Yeah?”
She nodded, pulse pounding in her wrists, in her throat, maybe temples and toes, too. “And I’m excited to get started.”
Apparently, she was excited to stand in the same room as him, but she hoped he couldn’t tell.
His laugh was warm and easy. “Okay. Okay! This is happening. For a minute there, I was bracing for a penalty flag. Got a first down instead.”
She cocked her head and gave him a playful look.
“Okay. Football analogies officially over right now.”
She laughed, not even caring that her cheeks felt warm. It was a bakery—minus the good stuff—so of course she was warm.
He turned the laptop toward her, shoulder almost brushing hers, the nearness of him a spark she felt and pretended not to. “I made some sketches, but let’s hear your ideas first. What would you like to do?”
Nothing she could admit in this kitchen.
Pulling it together, she gestured to the laptop, rooting deep for an idea. “Um, the base is important. If we have a good foundation, we can do anything.”
He smiled and angled his head. “I guess that’s true about every aspect of life, Gracie.”
She met his gaze and held it for enough heartbeats to make breathing a little difficult.
“I can bake a gingerbread slab on a plywood board covered in fondant so we’re not moving something fragile when we set it up,” she said, thanking God she could still think.
“Good, good.”
“And royal icing for the outer seams,” she said, her brain finally engaged, “but I want a meringue powder batchandan egg white batch—different dry times, different strengths in the cold. Oh, and if you insist on almond flour for part of the dough, you’re going to give me the real butter.”
He pressed a hand to his heart like she’d wounded him and laughed again. “Deal. And you can talk me out of monk fruit if you say the word.”
She did not saythe word—at least not the one she was thinking, which had nothing to do with baking and everything to do with what Nicole had said about doors.
They bent over the table, heads close, throwing ideas like cards. He agreed to a tiny fondant Red in a Santa suit peering in the front window, she gave in on the protein-bar “brick” trim.
There were two entrances, one a replica of Sugarfall and, on the other side, Craving Clean, and he’d promised to rig up some LED lights.
Behind them, the kitchen door swung open, and Roberto stuck his head in. “Hey, Marshall, there’s a lady on the phone wants to know if ‘clean’ gingerbread is a thing and I said yes and then I panicked.”
Marshall looked at Gracie with a conspirator’s glint, both of them laughing.
“Is ‘clean’ gingerbread a thing?” he asked.
“It will be,” she said. “Clean-ish. Don’t tell her about the butter.”
Laughing, he gave a nod to Roberto.
She let herself stay longer, soaking in the hum of the kitchen, the ridiculous joy of a project that wasn’t safe or sensible or even particularly wise. She heard Nicole’s voice one more time, not scolding now, just warm:This might be the push you needed.
Would she fall flat on her face? Maybe. But there was only one way to find out, so she kept the secret and set a date to bake with a man who just might have everything it would take to break down her walls.
With her cell phone on speaker, Cindy scrolled through the online calendar, waiting for the bride to settle on a date to reschedule the venue visit—even though she already knew it wasn’t going to happen.
“I think we should just cancel,” the woman said, as expected. “I’m sorry, but I kind of made up my mind.”
