“You do not.”
Em mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “That’s the problem,” but she covers it by reaching for the stack of order forms again.
I let the moment slide. For both our sakes.
“Okay,” she says, voice back to business-mode. “I need to start work on the gingerbread men next. And the cranberry orange bars. And the sugar cookie sets for the Farmer’s Market?—”
“Em,” I cut in, gently touching her elbow, “breathe.”
She does. A shaky inhale. A slow exhale.
“I’m so behind.”
“Then we’ll stay until we’re not.”
Her eyes flick up again—longer this time. Searching. Softening.
“You have your own life, Hayes.”
“You’re part of it.”
Her breath stutters. She drops her gaze to the counter.
“I mean it, Em. It’s not like I’ve got a hot date with Gideon or anything.”
That makes her laugh. A full-on belly laugh until tears are rolling down her face. “Okay, you win. I needed that. Those two are going to eat each other alive.”
“Probably,” I agree with a smile.
“Thanks for being here,” she whispers.
“No place I’d rather be.”
“You say that now but, don’t complain when you’re elbow-deep in gingerbread dough.”
“Never.”
“And don’t critique my frosting consistency.”
“I would never disrespect your frosting.”
The idea of licking frosting off of her infiltrates my mind.Shit.I need to get it together.
“And don’t flirt with the PTA moms when they come to pick up orders.”
“Why would I flirt with them?”
She shrugs a little too quickly. “They like you.”
“I like someone else.”
She freezes. Right there. Spatula in hand.
But I don’t push it further. Can’t. Not when she’s this fragile around the edges.
Instead, I slide the first cookie tray into the oven.
“There,” I say lightly, “batch one underway.”
