Holly
“Hols! HOLY SNOWBALLS, YOU HAVE TO SEE THIS!”
Charlie’s voice cuts through the din of the mixer. She bursts through the swinging door from the front, her apron dusted with powdered sugar, eyes wide behind her thick-framed glasses. She’s waving her phone frantically.
“See what?” I ask, not stopping my kneading. I’ve got way too much to do right now and I’m totally in the groove.
Charlie skids to a stop beside me, shoving her phone under my nose. “Look! LOOK!”
On the screen is a photo. Areallygood photo, actually. Crisp and clear despite the gray afternoon light. It’s me, bundled in my red peacoat, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with defiance. And right beside me, solid as a brick wall is Denton.
His arm is wrapped firmly around my shoulders, pulling me tight against his side. My head is tilted slightly towards him, resting against his shoulder. He’s holding my “Heart of the Neighborhood” sign high, his expression not the fierce scowl I half-expected, but something… steady. Resolute. Behind us, the blur of the protest crowd, signs held high, mouths open mid-chant.
The headline screams:BLADES’ DENTON BLAKE STANDS WITH LOCAL BAKERY AGAINST DEVELOPER! Wicker Park Rally Heats Up Over Beloved Sugar Rush.
My hands freeze mid-knead. Dough squishes between my fingers. “Oh,” I breathe.
“Oh?” Charlie echoes. “‘Oh’ is all you’ve got? Hols, this is EVERYWHERE! Local news blogs, neighborhood feeds, the Blades fan forum—apparently they’re calling you ‘The Baker Girl’! It’s trending! Look at the comments!” She scrolls down frantically. “‘Denton Blake protecting what’s his? Swoon!’ ‘Sugar Rush is the best! Fight the greedy developers!’ ‘Who’s the lucky baker??’ ‘#SaveSugarRush #HockeyHero’!”
My gaze snags on the image again. On the way Denton’s holding me. Possessive. Protective. Like I belong right there, tucked into his side. Like Sugar Rush is worth fighting for. Worthhisfight.
A warm, fizzy sensation, like perfectly proofed dough, rises in my chest, pushing against my ribs.
“He just… showed up,” I murmur, my voice thick with a sudden swell of emotion. I wipe my doughy hands hastily on my apron, leaving streaks of flour and molasses. “I didn’t even ask him to come. He was just there all of a sudden.” The memory of that moment – the shock, the overwhelming surge of relief and gratitude – washes over me again.
Charlie grins, nudging me with her elbow. “Because he’s crazy about you.” She scrolls further. “Seriously, though, Hols. This is huge. The exposure? The public support? People aretalking. Taviani can’t just sweep this under the rug now. Not with Denton Blake’s scowling mug attached to it.”
She points at the screen, at Denton’s focused, intense expression. “That right there? That’s the face of a man who’s decided Tony Taviani’s going down.”
Charlie’s right. Itishuge. For the first time since Tony’s smarmy smile darkened my doorway, I don’t justhopewe can save Sugar Rush; Ibelieveit. The constant knot of anxiety that’s lived inside me for weeks loosens, replaced by an almost giddy confidence.
“He said he’d handle it,” I say, the words tasting sweet and certain on my tongue. I pick up the dough again, giving it a confident thump.
Charlie watches me, her grin softening into something more thoughtful. She leans her hip against the counter, crossing her arms. “He’s definitely handling the ‘being ridiculously hot and protective’ part fantastically,” she concedes. “But ‘handling’ Tony Taviani? That guy plays dirtier than a rat in a dumpster, Hols. Denton’s tough, yeah, but Tony’s a different kind of animal. He doesn’t fight fair.”
I wave a floury hand dismissively. “Denton’s smart. And he’s… Denton. He’ll figure it out.”
Charlie just hums, a noncommittal sound, but her eyes linger on my face, a flicker of that old caution I know so well. She doesn’t push it, though.
Instead, she grabs a stray gingerbread man from a cooling rack and bites its head off with gusto. “Well,” she says through a mouthful of cookie, “as long as Captain Grumpy-pants keeps looking at you like you personally hung the moonandthe stars, I suppose I’ll reserve my doom-and-gloom.”
We fall into the familiar rhythm of bakery banter, the viral photo momentarily forgotten in the practicalities of frosting consistency and the next batch of dough needing to be rolled. But the warmth, the sense of being buoyed up by something powerful and good, stays with me.
The afternoon bleeds into evening. The post-work crowd thins, replaced by the cozy hush of a neighborhood settling in for the night. I’m piping delicate holly leaves onto a batch ofshortbread cookies, my focus narrowing to the tip of the bag, the smooth flow of green icing, when the back service entrance creaks open.
Denton steps inside, shaking snowflakes from his dark hair. He’s wearing a black wool coat over a gray sweater, looking effortlessly handsome.
“Hey!” I say, setting down the piping bag. Flour dusts my fingers, my apron, probably my cheekbone. Oh well. “You’re early. Tabby with your mom?”
He nods, closing the distance between us in a few long strides. “Movie night. Something involving singing snowmen.” His eyes scan my face, lingering on the flour smudge I can feel on my cheek. He reaches out, his thumb rough and warm as he brushes it away. The simple touch sends sparks skittering down my spine. “How’s everything going here?”
“Great,” I report, leaning slightly into his touch. “Pretty sure we baked about two million cookies today. Just finishing the last of them. And Charlie’s out there, terrorizing crumbs.” I gesture towards the front.
His attention shifts to my phone sitting on the counter beside the cooling rack of shortbread stars. It’s buzzing incessantly. “What’s got you buzzing?” he asks.
The fizzy feeling returns. “Oh! You have to see!” I grab the phone, unlocking it quickly. My fingers tremble slightly with excitement as I pull up the article Charlie showed me. I thrust the screen towards him. “Look! It’s everywhere! Isn’t it amazing?”
I watch his face, eager for his reaction. For the shared triumph, the warmth, maybe even a hint of possessiveness seeing the picture. I expect the soft crinkles around his eyes, the slight quirk of his lips that passes for a grin.
