The memory of Holly’s lips on mine floods back. The softness. The way she’d melted against me, her fingers tanglingin my hair, pulling me closer. The dizzying sense of rightness, of coming home after a brutal, endless journey.
Control.The word screams in my head, sharp and primal. It’s the voice that’s kept me alive, kept me moving forward through the crushing weight of grief.
I should text Holly. Something cold and distant.Thanks for the lessons. Tabby had fun. We won’t be needing any more.Cut the cord. Before this… whatever it is… takes root. Before Tabby gets any more attached. BeforeIget any more attached.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and my thumb hovers over Holly’s contact.
Just do it. Hit send. Build the wall.
But my thumb doesn’t move. The memory of the kiss surges again, a wave of heat crashing through the icy fear. It wasn’t just physical. It was… connection. A terrifying, exhilarating sense of being trulyseen, and not turning away. Of wanting more. So much more.
I lower the phone. I don’t send the text. I just can’t.
The fear is a cold, hard knot in my chest. It screams that letting her in is the ultimate gamble, a risk with stakes too high to comprehend. That building the walls back up is the only sane play.
I know, with a certainty that chills me to the bone, that I should stay away. That I should lock the door and retreat into the familiar, sterile safety.
I also know, with a terrifying, exhilarating certainty that feels like stepping off a cliff, that I won’t.
Chapter 18
Holly
My hands move with practiced efficiency, piping intricate snowflakes onto a bazillion star-shaped cookies. Outside, Chicago is disappearing under a thick blanket of snow, turning Wicker Park into a swirling snow globe. Inside Sugar Rush, it’s a different kind of storm – preparing a massive charity order for the children's hospital.
The memory of yesterday – Denton’s kiss, the deliciousness of his lips, the dizzying warmth of his body pressed against mine – flares bright and hot inside me.
The thought sends a fresh thrill through me, momentarily making my piping hand wobble. I steady it.Focus, Holly. Charity cookies don’t pipe themselves, no matter how distracting a certain grumpy defenseman might be.
"Okay, all you Rudolphs," I mutter to the tray of reindeer cookies awaiting their edible glitter antlers. "You're next."
The wind howls, rattling the front door in its frame like an impatient customer. The cheerful Christmas playlist I’d put on earlier – Charlie’s insistence, claiming it boosted productivity – competes with the wind.
I haven’t had a customer in hours. Just me, the mixer, and an army of cookies needing festive attire.
I pipe a particularly lopsided snowflake onto a cookie. "Artistic interpretation," I say firmly, though it looks more like a snow blob. Hopefully the kids won’t mind.
I grab a fresh tray of cooled gingerbread men. "Alright, fellas. Time for your sweaters." I pick up a piping bag loaded with blue icing. Tiny zig-zags for knit patterns, little dots for buttons. It’s detailed work, requiring concentration, which is good. It keeps the Denton-induced butterflies in my stomach at a manageable level instead of staging a full-scale revolt.
I’m halfway through outfitting a particularly chubby gingerbread man in a questionable argyle pattern when I hear it. A sound beneath the mixer’s thrum and the wind’s howl. A low, ominous groan, like the building itself is sighing under the weight of the snow. It comes from the far corner of the kitchen, near the utility sink.
I pause, piping bag hovering. That didn’t sound like wind.
Then, a sharpcrack. Like ice splitting.
A torrent of icy water erupts from the wall behind the utility sink. Not a trickle. Not a leak. A full-blown, pressurized geyser, spraying horizontally across the tiled floor with shocking force.
It hits the opposite wall with a slap, cascades down, and immediately begins spreading, a fast-moving flood heading straight for the low stacks of cardboard boxes lining the wall – boxes filled with flour, sugar, sprinkles, and my precious stash of imported Belgian chocolate chips.
"Oh,nooo." The words escape me in a choked whisper, drowned by the sudden roar of water. Panic, cold and sharp, slices through the cozy warmth of the bakery.
Adrenaline kicks in, sharp and electric. I drop the piping bag and leap towards the flood zone, my boots skidding on the rapidly spreading water.
The valve! Shut off the valve!My brain screams the obvious, even as my eyes frantically scan the wall. Pipes snake everywhere – hot, cold, the walk-in’s coolant lines.
The geyser is spewing from a joint near the floor, hidden behind the sink cabinet. I yank open the cabinet doors under the sink, fumbling in the dark space. Cleaning supplies, spare buckets, a mop. No obvious shut-off valve.
"Come on, come on!" I plead, desperation rising like the water around my ankles. The icy flood is spreading relentlessly, already lapping at the bottom boxes.
