I shift my weight. The worn floorboard creaks under my boot.State your terms. Control the play.“She wants to learn. From you. Specifically.”
I take a breath, steeling myself. This is where I impose order. “I understand your time is valuable. Especially this time of year.” My gaze flicks to the bustling street outside, the holiday shoppers. “I’d like to compensate you fairly. For your time.”
I pull my wallet out. I open it, extracting a black credit card. “Name your rate. Per session. I’ll cover materials, obviously.” I hold the card out.
Holly stares at the card. Her expression does something complicated. The strained tiredness flickers, replaced first by surprise, then by something that looks suspiciously like… offense? Her lips press together for a second. She doesn’t take the card. Instead, she crosses her arms over her snowman apron. The movement draws my eye to her chest.Focus, Blake.
“Mr. Blake,” she says, her voice losing some of its earlier forced warmth. It’s slightly cooler now. More like the woman who stood her ground yesterday. “I appreciate the offer. But I don’t run a… baking academy.” Her gaze flicks pointedly to the credit card.
A flush creeps up my neck.Penalty: Misreading the play.I keep the card extended, my arm starting to feel foolish. “It’s payment. For a service.”Keep it transactional.
“The service of teaching a little girl how to bake Christmas cookies?” Holly asks, her head tilting again. There’s a spark in her eyes now. She looks down at Tabby, whose smile has faltered slightly, her dark eyes darting anxiously between us. Holly’s expression softens instantly. She crouches down, putting herselfat Tabby’s level. “Hey, sweet girl. You really want to learn the secret ways of the gingerbread knights?”
Tabby nods vigorously, her curls bouncing. “Yes! Please, Holly? I wanna make magic cookies like you! With sprinkles! Lots and lots of sprinkles!”
Holly smiles, a real one this time. It transforms her face, warming her eyes, smoothing away the tightness around them. It’s like sunshine breaking through storm clouds. I feel an unexpected, unwelcome jolt low in my gut.Keep your head in the game, Blake.
“Magic cookies, huh?” Holly says softly to Tabby. “Let’s do it.” She glances up at me, her expression unreadable for a moment. She straightens up, brushing her hands on her apron. “Alright, Mr. Blake. Put your card away.”
I hesitate, the card still hovering in the air. “The payment?—”
“Is unnecessary,” she interrupts, her voice firm but not unkind. She meets my gaze directly. “I’ll teach Tabby to bake. Consider it… a holiday favor. From one neighbor to another. But,” she adds, “it needs to be scheduled. My afternoons are slammed until closing, especially this close to Christmas. Mornings are prep time.” She grins, a flash of perfect white teeth.
Relief wars with a deeper sense of being trapped. She agreed but no money was exchanged. That makes it… complicated. Less defined. But Tabby is practically levitating with joy beside me.Objective achieved. Primary goal: Tabby’s happiness. Check.
“Scheduled is good,” I say, finally lowering the useless credit card and shoving it back into my wallet. “What days? What times? I have… commitments.”Practice. Games. Team meetings. The rigid structure of my actual life.
Holly taps a finger against her lips, thinking. “Hmm. Late afternoons are out. Evenings… maybe? After closing? It’squieter. Less… overwhelming.” Her gaze flicks to me, then quickly away. “Say… six o’clock? Starting… when?”
“Tomorrow?” Tabby pipes up, hopeful.
“Tomorrow is really soon, sweet pea,” Holly says gently. “And I imagine your daddy has plans?” She looks at me questioningly.
Plans. Right. The mandatory team ‘family’ skate at the practice rink. “We have obligations tomorrow evening,” I confirm, my voice tight. “A team event.”
Holly nods. “Ah. Right. Hockey player. Busy schedule.” There’s no mockery in her tone, just simple acknowledgment. “Well, how about Wednesday then?” She looks from me to Tabby. “Does that work for Operation Cookie Baking?”
Tabby’s face falls for a split second at the delay, but she rallies quickly. “Wednesday! Okay!”
“Wednesday,” I echo. The day I voluntarily walk back into this sensory overload zone. By choice.What the hell am I doing?“Six o’clock.” I pull out my phone, fingers moving automatically to input it into my calendar.
“Perfect,” Holly says brightly. She claps her hands together softly. “We’ll have so much fun, Tabby.” She winks at my daughter.
Tabby giggles, a sound like tiny bells. It hits me square in the chest, a physical sensation that steals my breath for a second. When was the last time I heard her laugh like that? Truly, freely? Not the careful, quiet giggles she offers sometimes, but this… effervescent burst?
Since before. Since her mother. The familiar ache sets in.
“Okay,” I say, my voice sounding rough. “Wednesday at six.” I reach out, placing a hand gently on Tabby’s shoulder. “Time to go, Tabby. Say thank you to Holly.”
“Thank you, Holly!” Tabby chirps, beaming up at her.
Holly’s smile softens again, genuine warmth returning to her eyes as she looks at Tabby. “You’re very welcome, sweet pea.Both of you. We’ll see you Wednesday.” Her gaze lifts to meet mine. It’s still guarded, but the weariness seems momentarily lifted by Tabby’s enthusiasm. “Have a good day, Mr. Blake.”
“You too, Holly,” I mutter, already steering Tabby towards the door. Escape. I need escape.
As I push the door open, the cold Chicago air hits my face like a slap, welcome and bracing. I take a deep, cleansing breath.
Tabby skips ahead onto the snowy sidewalk, humming a Christmas song that was playing in the bakery. She’s practically glowing.
