He gives a curt nod, his jaw working slightly. “Ms. James.” His voice is low, gravelly. He finally steps fully into the kitchen, moving with a controlled grace that feels out of place amidst the cheerful clutter.
He shrugs off his peacoat and folds it with precise, efficient movements and lays it neatly on a stool in the corner.
“Alright then,” I say, clapping my hands together softly. “First order of business: aprons!” I grab a clean, adult-sized apron from a hook – plain white canvas, free of dancing snowmen. I hold it out to him. “Kitchen rule number one: protect the clothes.”
He stares at the apron like I’ve offered him a live grenade. His gaze flicks from the fabric to me, then back. A muscle ticks in his jaw. “I… don’t think that’s necessary. I’ll just… observe.” He gestures vaguely towards the stool with his coat.
I raise an eyebrow. “Observe? During Operation Cookie Baking?” I shake the apron gently and see the visible horror in his gray eyes.
Tabby tugs at his sweater. “Daddy! You need an apron! Like me and Holly! We’re a team!” She beams up at him, her tiny apron tied in a lopsided bow.
He looks down at her, his stern expression softening almost imperceptibly. He sighs, a sound like air escaping a punctured tire. “Fine.” The word is clipped. He takes the apron from me, his fingers brushing mine for a fleeting second. The unexpected contact sends a tiny jolt up my arm.
He handles the apron like it’s contaminated, holding it away from his body as he awkwardly loops it over his head. He fumbles with the ties behind his back, his movements stiff and uncoordinated. Watching the formidable Denton Blake struggle with apron strings is unexpectedly… endearing. And hilarious.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “Need a hand?”
“I’ve got it,” he grunts, finally managing a clumsy knot. The plain white apron looks absurdly incongruous against his dark clothes and powerful build. He looks like a grizzly bear forced into a tea cozy. He smooths the front down unnecessarily, his expression grim. “Alright. Proceed.”
I turn back to Tabby, who is trying her hardest to remain patient. “Okay! First mission: Sugar cookies!” I gesture to the large bowl of fragrant dough I mixed earlier. “We need to roll it out flat first!”
I demonstrate, sprinkling flour generously onto the countertop. A small cloud puffs up. Denton flinches almost imperceptibly, taking a half-step back. I suppress another smile.Oh, this is going to be fun.
I set Tabby up with a stool to stand on and hand her a miniature wooden rolling pin. “Your turn! Just push and roll, push and roll!”
Tabby attacks the dough with enthusiastic abandon. Her tiny arms pump, the rolling pin wobbling wildly. The dough sticks and she adds more flour. A lot more flour. A miniature white cloud erupts around her. She giggles, a tinkling bell in the tense atmosphere.
“Whoa there, sweet pea!” I laugh, gently guiding her hands. “Easy on the flour! We just need a little bit.” I help her smooth out the dough, but the damage is done. The counter is a snowy landscape. Flour drifts onto the floor.
Denton stands rigidly a few feet away, his arms crossed over the white apron. His jaw is clenched so tight I worry he might crack a tooth. His knuckles are white where he grips his own elbows. He looks like he’s witnessing a crime scene. A messy, sugary crime scene.
“Perhaps,” he says, his voice strained, “a more… measured approach to the flour dispersal?” He gestures stiffly towards the bag. “A teaspoon dispenser? Or a pour spout?”
I blink at him. Ateaspoon dispenserfor flour? In a bakery? During a kid’s baking lesson? The sheer absurdity of it, combined with his deadly serious expression, breaks through my nerves.
A genuine laugh bubbles out of me. “Mr. Blake,” I manage, wiping a flour-dusted hand on my apron, “this isn’t a chemistry lab. It’s making cookies. Embrace the mess.”
He stares at me, his eyes wide. “Embrace… the mess?” He repeats the words slowly, as if they’re in a foreign language. He looks pointedly at the white dust now coating the sleeve of his pristine black sweater.
Tabby ignores us, completely absorbed in pressing a star-shaped cutter into the dough. “Look, Daddy! A star! Like on our tree!” She holds up the slightly lopsided shape triumphantly, beaming.
Denton’s gaze snaps to her. The rigid tension in his shoulders eases, just a fraction. Something softens in his eyes as he looks at her flour-dusted face, her shining eyes. “It’s… perfect, Tabby Cat,” he murmurs, his voice losing its edge.
The transformation is startling. The fierce protector, the grumpy giant, momentarily replaced by a tender, loving father. It’s a glimpse behind the fortress walls, and it steals my breath for a second.
“Okay!” I say, pushing down the unexpected warmth spreading through my chest. “Cutting time! Tabby, you man the stars and trees. Mr. Blake…” I grab a snowflake cutter and hold it out to him. “…snowflakes require precision. Do you think you can handle it?”
He eyes the cutter warily, then looks at the floured counter, then at Tabby’s expectant face. He hesitates for only a second before taking it from me. His fingers brush mine again, another brief, warm spark.
He steps cautiously towards the counter, navigating the flour drifts like they’re landmines. He presses the cookie cutter into the dough with focused intensity, ensuring clean edges. Watching him cut a snowflake cookie is like watching a master craftsman at work. It’s strangely fascinating.
Tabby, meanwhile, is a whirlwind of festive shapes. Stars! Trees! More stars! Her cookies are crowded close together, some overlapping, edges blurry.
Denton, on the other hand, focuses on his perfectly spaced, geometrically precise snowflakes. The contrast is hilarious – meticulous order versus joyful pandemonium, working side-by-side.
“Daddy, your snowflake is lonely!” Tabby declares, plopping a slightly squashed star right next to his perfect snowflake. “They need to be friends!”
Denton opens his mouth, probably to explain optimal cookie spacing for even baking, but catches my eye. I raise an eyebrow, a silent challenge.Embrace the mess, Grumpy.
