The gingerbread house session was supposed to be the last but apparently Tabby had begged Denton for just one more, so here we are.
I’ve replayed our “date” a thousand times in my mind. The memory of his hand lacing with mine on the snowy curb, the warmth, the possessiveness of it… followed by the cold dismissal as he drove away. The almost-kiss that never happened, the warmth of his hand on my bare back while we danced. Had I imagined the intensity? Misread the entire night?
“Holly! Look!” Tabby’s sweet little voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. She’s perched on a tall stool beside her dad,proudly holding up a cookie she’s drowned in red icing and a blizzard of rainbow sprinkles. “It’s Rudolph! See his nose?”
“Wow, Tabby!” I force enthusiasm into my voice, pushing the confusing thoughts about her father aside. “That nose is definitely leading the sleigh on Christmas Eve! Super bright!”
She beams, then immediately dips her finger into the bowl of melted chocolate Denton is using, snagging a glob. “Needs antlers!” she declares before popping the chocolate into her mouth.
“Tabitha,” Denton rumbles, his voice firm. His gaze flicks to her chocolate-smeared finger, then back to the cookie he’s meticulously outlining. “No more fingers in the chocolate.”
“But it tastes so good!” she counters. Her tongue darts out, licking stray chocolate from her lip.
I watch Denton’s profile. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. The urge to maintain order in the face of Tabby’s delicious frenzy, is palpable. It’s a dance I’ve watched countless times now – his instinctive recoil from mess battling his fierce love for the tiny whirlwind creating it.
He takes a slow breath, the kind that every parent does multiple times a day and carefully places the piping bag down. He grabs a damp cloth instead, gently capturing Tabby’s sticky wrist. “Let’s clean you up,” he says, his tone softening a little bit as he wipes her hands clean.
“Okay,” Tabby sighs dramatically, accepting the piping bag he hands her. She immediately squeezes it too hard, sending a thick squiggle of chocolate shooting wildly across her cookie, missing the ‘antler’ spots entirely. “Oops!”
A tiny, almost imperceptible sigh escapes Denton. He picks up another cloth. I bite back a smile. Watching the mighty Denton Blake, star defenseman, battle chocolate icing with a damp rag is hilarious.
“Here,” I say, moving around the island towards them. “Let me show you a trick for antlers, Tabby. You just need a lighter touch.” I reach for a fresh piping bag, my arm brushing against Denton’s as I lean over to grab it from the counter behind him.
The contact is brief, accidental. Just my forearm grazing the solid muscle of his bicep through the soft cotton of his sleeve.
But it sends a jolt of electricity up my arm, sharp and startling. I jerk my hand back as if burned, fumbling the piping bag. It clatters onto the butcher block, splattering a dollop of chocolate.
Denton flinches, a subtle recoil that’s more felt than seen. He doesn’t look at me, but his hand, still holding the damp cloth, clenches momentarily. His posture goes impossibly stiffer, if that were possible.
“Sorry!” I stammer. I grab a paper towel, mopping up the chocolate splatter.
His gaze flicks sideways, just for a millisecond, meeting mine. Storm-gray eyes, dark and intense. Then he immediately focuses back on Tabby’s cookie carnage. “Less pressure, Tabby,” he murmurs. “Like Holly said.”
Tabby seems completely oblivious to what’s going on between me and her dad. She chatters happily about reindeer names and whether Santa prefers gingerbread or chocolate chip. Her piping efforts becoming marginally less disastrous under my guidance, though her reindeer now sport chocolate antlers that look suspiciously like squiggly mustaches.
“There!” she declares, holding up her latest creation – a cookie vaguely resembling a reindeer buried under an avalanche of green icing and silver sprinkles. “This one’s for Holly!”
“It’s perfect, Tabby,” I say, genuinely touched, taking the offered cookie. “Thank you.” The sweet gesture, her innocent affection, is a warm balm against the confusing tension coiling in my stomach.
I catch Denton looking at me. His gaze is thoughtful, unreadable, but softer than it’s been all afternoon. He looks away quickly when he sees me notice.
“Daddy, your reindeer looks sad,” Tabby observes, peering at Denton’s near-perfectly piped creation. It’s symmetrical, clean-lined, technically flawless. And utterly devoid of personality.
Denton frowns at it. “It’s… precise.”
“Needs sprinkles!” Tabby decrees, grabbing the shaker of rainbow nonpareils. Before he can protest, she liberally douses his cookie, turning his austere reindeer into a festive disco ball. “There! Happy now!”
Denton stares at the transformed cookie, his expression caught somewhere between irritable and reluctant amusement. He glances at Tabby’s beaming face, then at the sparkly monstrosity. A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Very… festive,” he concedes, his voice dry.
Tabby giggles, delighted with her victory. “See? Sprinkles fix everything!” She hops off her stool, her energy boundless. “I’m gonna make a snowman cookie now! With arealcarrot nose!” She darts towards the fridge where we keep the veggie decorations.
I risk a glance at Denton. He’s staring down at Tabby’s sparkly reindeer cookie, his brow furrowed, not in annoyance this time, but in deep thought. His fingers tap a slow, restless rhythm on the butcher block. He looks… conflicted like he’s wrestling with something internal. Is it the same storm I feel brewing inside me?
A soft giggle pulls my attention away from Denton’s tense profile. Tabby is standing near the wide doorway that leads back into the bakery’s front area, precariously balanced on the lower rung of the small step ladder I use to reach high shelves. In her hand is a small, slightly bedraggled sprig of greenery tied with a red ribbon. Mistletoe. Where did she evenfindthat?
“Tabby, careful!” Denton’s voice is sharp, laced with instant paternal concern. He takes a step towards her at the same time that I do.
“Look, Daddy! Look, Holly!” Tabby chirps, completely unconcerned about her own safety. With a triumphant flourish, she stretches up, her small fingers fumbling with a piece of clear tape. She presses it firmly to the top of the doorframe, right at the center, securing the sprig of mistletoe. She beams down at us, her eyes sparkling with glee. “There! Now youhaveto!”
