Charlie’s right. He’s not the prince charming from my favorite romance books. He’s a fortress. A handsome, complicated fortress.
“No,” I whisper, the word feeling heavy. “It’s not.”
“Exactly,” Charlie says, relief evident in her voice. “So, have fun with the baking lessons. Make Tabby happy. Maybe even enjoy the view – I won’t blame you, the man is sculpted. But for the love of all that is holy, Hols,don’tgo building a gingerbread house in your head where you two live happily ever after. Protect yourself. Okay?”
Protect yourself.It’s the opposite of my usual approach. My heart usually leads the charge, dragging my common sense behind it like a reluctant toddler.
But Charlie’s voice, laced with the wisdom of past heartbreaks and fierce love, resonates. Denton Blake is emotionally treacherous territory. Getting my hopes up… it’s the one luxury I truly can’t afford right now.
“Okay,” I say, forcing conviction into my voice. “Okay, Char. I hear you. Loud and clear. No gingerbread castles in the sky. Got it.” I manage a small laugh. “I’ll stick to the edible kind. Less heartbreak potential.”
“Atta girl,” Charlie says, her voice warm with approval. “Now, try to get some sleep? Big castle-building day tomorrow. Operation Gingerbread Fortress, or whatever you’re calling it.”
“Operation Gingerbread Castle,” I correct automatically, a smile touching my lips despite everything. “And yeah. Sleep. Good plan.”
Charlie yawns. “Night, Hols.”
“Night, Char. Love you.”
“Love you more, sunshine.”
I push myself off the sofa, the weariness still there but less jagged. Padding into the small kitchen nook, I flick on the kettle. Chamomile. Something calming.
While it heats, I wander over to the small desk tucked under the eaves, piled with recipe notes. My sketchbook lies open, half-covered by a stray flyer for the neighborhood tree lighting.
I pick it up, the familiar texture of the paper under my fingers. Absently, I flip past pages of cookie designs, cupcake concepts, whimsical gingerbread houses. My fingers reach for a pencil that’s nearby. I shouldn’t. I should go to bed.
But the image is there, vivid in my mind: Tabby’s excited face, her small hands eager to build.
I think about an idea for a castle. A snowy courtyard. A tiny gingerbread knight standing guard. Maybe a little sledding hill made of piped white icing. A sparkly moat of blue sugar crystals…
The pencil moves almost of its own accord. Light, quick strokes sketch the outline of the castle walls, taller and more elaborate than our previous efforts. I add turrets dusted with snowy powdered sugar, arched doorways piped with dark chocolate. A courtyard takes shape, and there, a tiny figure with a pretzel-stick sword. Then another figure, smaller, beside him.
My hand hesitates. Then, almost without thinking, I sketch a taller figure near the castle gates. Broad-shouldered, standing watch. It’s just lines, simple shapes, but the stance… rigid, protective, a hint of reluctant presence. Denton.
I stare at the sketch. It’s too much. Too elaborate. Too… hopeful. Charlie’s voice rings in my ears:Don’t go building a gingerbread house in your head…This sketch, this silly, whimsical scene… it feels like exactly that. A blueprint for a fantasy.
I should close the book. Put the pencil down. Remember the accountant, the musician, the graphic designer. Remember Tony’s sneering face and the numbers on that sheet of paper. Remember Charlie’s fierce, loving voice.
But the warmth of that moment in the bakery – Denton’s quiet question, his solid presence blocking the door, the fleeting glimpse of something protective beneath the grumpy exterior – it lingers.
My fingers tighten on the pencil. I add a few more details to the snowy courtyard. A tiny sled. A cluster of candy cane trees. My rational mind screams caution, but my heart… my traitorous, optimistic heart… is already mixing the icing sugar and dreaming of turrets.
The kettle whistles, a sharp, insistent sound in the quiet apartment. I set the sketchbook down, the half-finished gingerbread scene staring up at me. It’s ridiculous. Over-the-top. Exactly the kind of thing Charlie warned me about.
I walk to the kitchen, pour the hot water over the chamomile teabag, watching the pale gold swirl into the cup. I carry the cup back to the sofa, curling up again under the cinnamon throw.
Charlie is right. I know she is. Getting my hopes up is a recipe for disaster. Denton Blake is a fortress, not a fairy tale. Sugar Rush needs my focus, my fight.
But as I sip the hot tea, the warmth spreading through me, the sketch seems to glow softly in the lamplight. It’s just a drawing. Just a silly idea for a baking lesson. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just… planning. Making it special for Tabby.
And despite knowing better, despite the parade of past heartbreaks and the very real threat to everything I’ve built, the feeling blooming in my chest as I look at that sketch isn’t fear, or even sensible caution.
It feels, terrifyingly, hopefully, like a gingerbread dream I have no business building.
Chapter 9
Denton
