"Wandered off?" Mom’s voice sharpens instantly with maternal alarm. "Denton Michael! Is she alright? Where did she go?"
"She’s fine, Mom. Truly." I infuse my voice with a calm I don’t feel. "Just saw some Christmas lights in a shop window and went to look. It was a bakery." I can't keep the faint edge of distaste from the word.
"A bakery?" Mom’s tone shifts, the alarm replaced by something lighter, almost… hopeful? "Sugar Rush, by any chance? Over in Wicker Park? Oh, that place is delightful! Holly James is a treasure. Her gingerbread houses are legendary. Tabby, did you see them?"
I feel my jaw clench. Of course Mom knows the owner of the bakery. Of course she approves. "She saw it," I say quickly, signaling to change lanes. "She got a cookie. Now we're heading home."
"But Daddy," Tabby’s voice rises, filled with sudden urgency. "We have to go back!"
"Go back?" I keep my eyes fixed on the taillights ahead, red smears in the falling snow. "Why, baby?"
"Sir Gingerbread needs friends!" Tabby declares. "And Holly said… Holly said she makes magic cookies! And she has sprinkles! And she smells like Christmas!" The words tumble out in an excited rush. "She’s the magic cookie lady, Daddy! Wehaveto go back! Tomorrow? Please? Pleasepleaseplease?"
In the rearview mirror, I see her eyes. Wide. Dark. Shining with an earnest, desperate hope I haven't seen since… since before. It’s a light I thought grief had extinguished and it’s aimed squarely at me. It unfortunately means returning to the pandemonium, the glitter, the woman who looked at me with defiance instead of deference.
Irritation wars with a profound sense of defeat. This Holly-the-baker-person has somehow infiltrated my life. Not through force, but through gingerbread and a five-year-old’s shining eyes.
Chapter 3
Holly
The phantom scent of expensive cologne still clings to the air near the door wherehestood yesterday. Or maybe it’s just my imagination, replaying those storm-gray eyes boring into me with enough accusation to curdle eggnog.
I scrub furiously at the already gleaming countertop, the lemon-scented cleaner biting my nostrils.
“Helloooo...” Charlie’s voice cuts through my frantic polishing. She’s leaning against the doorway to the kitchen, arms crossed, her blue hair a vibrant slash against the warm brick wall. “You’ve attacked that poor counter like it personally insulted you. Still thinking about Mr. Tall, Dark, and Terrifying?”
I huff, tossing the damp cloth aside. It lands with a wet slap. “No. Yes. Maybe. He just… sucked all the oxygen out of the room, Charlie. And the warmth. It felt like a blizzard walked in wearing gym clothes.”
I pick up a piping bag filled with deep red royal icing and start outlining poinsettias on a fresh batch of sugar cookies. “And the way he looked at me… like I’d lured his kid in here with my evil cookies.”
“Do you know who he is?” Charlie asks.
I blink at her, completely clueless. “Who he is? What do you mean?”
“His name is Denton Blake and he’s a big-shot player for the Chicago Blades,” Charlie answers. “I thought he looked familiar, so I looked it up.”
“Well that certainly explains why he was just a tad full of himself.”
Charlie pushes off the doorway and grabs a tray of cooled gingerbread men. She starts bagging them with efficient snaps of clear cellophane. “Yeah, I hear you. But first of all, the dude wasclearlyhaving a panic attack. Finding your kid missing? Yeah, that’ll turn anyone into an asshole. But beyond that, did you see him? Like,reallysee him, past the scary parts?”
I pipe a careful leaf. “He was tall. And angry. And ridiculously fit. Like, ‘could probably bench press our industrial mixer’ fit. But that’s totally irrelevant.”
Charlie snorts. “Oh, it’s relevant. Painfully relevant. Because… Hols?” She pauses, holding up a gingerbread man. “He’s exactly your type. The brooding, complicated, emotionally unavailable fortress-of-a-man type. The kind you think you can ‘fix’ with sunshine and sprinkles.”
The piping bag slips. A blob of red icing ruins a perfectly good poinsettia petal. Damn it. “He isnotmy type! My type is… is nice guys! Sweet guys! Guys who don’t glare at baked goods!”
“Name one guy like that that you’ve dated,” Charlie challenges, arching an eyebrow. She ticks names off on her fingers. “There was Chad the Comedian, who thought ‘commitment’ was the punchline. Mark the Musician, whose main instrument was his ego. And let’s not forget Professor Pretentious, who quoted Kierkegaard over croissants and then ghosted you after three weeks.”
She shakes the gingerbread man at me. “Face it. You’re drawn to the fixer-uppers, the projects, the guys radiating‘damaged goods’ like a distress beacon. And Mr. Grumpy Hot Dad Hockey Star? He’s got ‘project’ written all over him in permanent marker. In big, flashing neon letters.”
The truth of it stings, sharp as lemon zest under a fingernail. And she’s not entirely wrong. I have a history of seeing potential where there’s mostly just… emotionally barricaded walls.
I focus on salvaging the ruined poinsettia, adding extra leaves to hide the blob. “Even if hewasmy type, which he’snot,” I insist, “he made it abundantly clear he thinks Sugar Rush is a chaotic hazard zone. He practically recoiled from our decorations.”
I gesture around at the strings of lights, the tinsel garland looped over the espresso machine. “This is probably his personal hell. Besides, he clearly hates Christmas.”
“All the more reason to avoid him,” Charlie says firmly, finishing the cookie bagging project. “We have enough going on right now. Big things. The kind involving decimal points and zeroes.” She nods meaningfully towards the stack of envelopes tucked under the register.
