The bell above the door chimes again.
The sound cuts through my spiraling thoughts. I don’t turn immediately. My gaze is still locked on my own worried reflection, superimposed over the snowy street scene.Please just be Mrs. Kowalski picking up her gingerbread houses. Or Mr. Henderson wanting a refill.
But the air shifts. The cozy warmth that usually flows back in with a customer is absent. Instead, a different kind of chill enters – not Tony’s corporate frost, but the bluster of a winter storm disguised as a man. And then, reflected in the window glass, I see him.
Denton Blake.
He stands just inside the doorway, a massive silhouette blocking the light from outside. Daylight streams around him, outlining his powerful frame in sharp relief.
He’s not in athletic wear today. Dark jeans, a black sweater that stretches across broad shoulders, a navy peacoat open over it. He looks even bigger, more imposing in the clear light. And grumpier. His jaw is set in a rigid line, his eyes scanning the bakery with palpable reluctance, like he’s just walked onto a battlefield littered with glitter bombs.
And then I see her. A small figure half-hidden behind his leg, clutching the fabric of his jeans. Wide, dark eyes, full of hesitant hope, lock onto my reflection in the window. Tabby.
My heart does a somersault in my chest. Fear from Tony’s visit collides head-on with the confusing jolt of seeinghimagain. The Grumpy Hot Dad. The man who looked at me like I was a cookie-wielding criminal. The man whose daughter thinks I make magic.
Slowly, I turn around. The movement feels stiff, awkward. The cheerful Christmas music suddenly feels deafeningly loud. Charlie, behind the counter, has frozen mid-wipe, her eyes wide, darting between me and the newcomers.
His gaze finds mine. It’s not the white-hot fury of yesterday, but it’s still guarded. Cold. Assessing. He looks profoundly unhappy to be here. Like he’d rather be anywhere else.
Tabby peeks out fully from behind his leg. She offers a tiny, tentative wave. “Hi,” she whispers, her voice barely audible over Bing Crosby.
Denton doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, a monument of simmering grumpiness, filling the doorway.
My sanctuary suddenly feels like the stage for a play I didn't audition for, starring a hostile dad, a hopeful five-year-old, and me – the baker with icing on her face and panic in her chest.
Chapter 4
Denton
The door clicks shut behind us, sealing us inside the cinnamon-scented insanity. Tabby immediately tugs her hand free from mine and darts towards the counter, her little boots leaving damp prints on the worn floorboards. She heads right toward Holly.
I stand rooted just inside the threshold. Christmas music plays – some sickly-sweet pop rendition of a carol. It immediately grates on my nerves.
My gaze sweeps the room, a defensive scan. The elderly man from yesterday is in the corner, newspaper spread, watching us over his coffee cup. He’s the only customer.
Tabby reaches the counter, bouncing on her toes. “Holly! Holly! We came back! Like I promised! We need more cookies!”
Holly turns from where she was looking out the windows. Now, she faces us, and the smile she plasters on is bright. Too bright. But it doesn’t reach her eyes. Those warm brown eyes look… tired. There’s a tightness around them, a subtle tension in the set of her jaw that wasn’t there yesterday during our initial confrontation.
She focuses entirely on Tabby, her expression softening into something more genuine as she crouches slightly. “Tabby! Youdid come back!” Her voice is warm, melodic, cutting through the jingle-jangle music. “So you need more cookies?”
“Yes!” Tabby beams, shoving the cookie towards her. “Can we make them? Now? Daddy said maybe!”
I did not say ‘maybe’. I said ‘we’ll see,’ which is dad code for ‘probably not, but I needed time to formulate a defensive strategy.
Holly’s gaze flicks up to mine, just for a split second. There’s a question there, maybe a flicker of the defiance I saw yesterday, but it’s overshadowed by that underlying weariness. She straightens up, brushing flour from the front of her apron – today’s features dancing snowmen wearing scarves.
“Well,” she says, her voice carefully neutral as she addresses me. “Mr. Blake. Back so soon.” She says it with amusement – like I’m a stray cat that’s wandered back onto her porch.
I clear my throat. The noise sounds too loud in the suddenly quiet bakery. The elderly man lowers his newspaper a fraction. Even the Christmas music seems to fade slightly, or maybe that’s just my perception narrowing to the impending awkwardness.
“Umm,” I manage, my voice coming out gruffer than intended. I shove my hands deep into the pockets of my peacoat. “Tabby… she wouldn’t stop talking about this place.”About you. About the cookies. About the magic.“And about… baking lessons.” I force the words out. Baking lessons… What the hell am I doing right now?
Holly blinks. Her eyebrows lift slightly. “Baking lessons?” She glances down at Tabby, who is practically quivering with excitement, then back at me. Her gaze sharpens, assessing. “For… Tabby?”
“Yes.” One syllable. Clean. Direct. “She’s… enthusiastic.” Understatement of the year. Tabby’s been drawing pictures of gingerbread armies since breakfast.
Holly tilts her head, a stray curl escaping her ponytail and brushing her cheek. “And you… want me to teach her?” There’s a hint of disbelief, carefully masked.
