I follow, my steps heavy on the salted pavement. The cold seeps through my coat, a familiar sensation. “Tabby, wait up.”
Tabby stops and when I catch up, she grabs my hand, her mitten cold and damp. “Daddy! I’m so excited Holly said yes! We’re gonna bake magic cookies!” Her whole body is vibrating with anticipation. Her dark eyes shine up at me, reflecting the lights strung along the street. They’re full of a hope and a happiness that feels… fragile.
I squeeze her small hand gently. “I heard, Tabby Cat.” My voice is softer than I intended. “Magic cookies on Wednesday.”
She beams, swinging our clasped hands. “I can’t wait!”
We walk towards the car, the snow crunching underfoot. The knot in my chest hasn’t loosened. If anything, it’s tightened. I now have an appointment to spend Wednesday night in my own personal, sugar-dusted, cinnamon-scented hell.
But Tabby skips beside me, humming her off-key carol, radiating joy. A joy I haven’t been able to spark on my own. A joy sparked by Sugar Rush. By Holly James.
As I unlock the car door, helping Tabby climb into her booster seat, the cold metal under my fingers feels solid. Real. Ordered. But the warmth of her small hand lingers in mine, and the memory of her laughter echoes in the quiet car.
I slide into the driver’s seat, the leather cold against my back. I start the engine, the familiar purr filling the space. I glance in the rearview mirror. Tabby is grinning, already chattering to herself about Wednesday.
The knot in my chest twists. Trapped? Definitely. Outmaneuvered by a five-year-old and a baker who refuses payment? Absolutely. But as I pull away from the curb, leaving the circus of Sugar Rush behind, the weight in my chest isn’t entirely dread. There’s a flicker there. Small. Insistent. The flicker of Tabby’s happiness. Maybe… just maybe… it’s worth it.
Chapter 5
Holly
The scent of gingerbread usually feels like a warm embrace, but today it smells like impending doom. I wipe down the already pristine stainless-steel counter for the third time.
My gaze darts around the kitchen: mixing bowls stacked with military precision, ingredients lined up on the countertop, piping bags filled and ready. Even the usually chaotic sprinkle jars are arranged by color in a neat rainbow.
“You realize you’re prepping for a five-year-old and a grumpy hockey player, not Julia Child, right?” Charlie leans against the doorway, arms crossed, a smirk playing on her lips. She’s wearing a reindeer antler headband today, which bobs precariously as she shakes her head at my neurosis.
“I just want everything to go smoothly,” I mutter, rearranging the cookie cutters – gingerbread men, stars, trees, snowflakes – for the fifth time.
Charlie pushes off the doorframe. “Relax, Hols. It’s baking. With a kid. Mess is mandatory. Fun is the objective. And if Mr. Hockey Hotshot doesn’t appreciate the controlled chaos, well…” She grins wickedly. “That’s his problem.”
I manage a weak smile. Controlled chaos. That’s Sugar Rush’s brand.
But Denton Blake doesn’t strike me as a ‘controlled chaos’ kind of guy. The memory of his icy glare, the way he’d scanned my bakery like it was a biohazard zone, sends a fresh wave of nerves through me.
“Deep breaths, boss,” Charlie says, reading my face like an open book. She gives my shoulder a quick squeeze. “You’ve got this. Bake the cookies. Charm the tiny human. Tolerate the giant grump. Easy peasy.”
She heads towards the front, pausing at the door. “And for the record? If he gives you any grief, just ‘accidentally’ spill vanilla all over his designer jeans.” She winks and disappears into the shop, leaving me alone with my meticulously arranged battleground.
The clock above the oven ticks louder than usual. 5:58 PM. Two minutes. I smooth my apron – today’s features cheerful snowmen having a snowball fight – and take a deep breath.Okay, Holly. Sunshine Baker mode. Engage.
The bell above the front door chimes, a cheerful sound that somehow feels like a starting pistol. I hear Charlie’s bright greeting, then the unmistakable sound of small, excited feet thumping towards the kitchen doorway.
Tabby bursts in like a tiny, pink-coated hurricane. “Holly! Holly! We’re here!” She skids to a stop just inside the kitchen, her dark eyes wide with wonder as she takes in the prepped station.
Her striped hat is slightly askew, her cheeks flushed. Right behind her, filling the doorway completely, is Denton. He’s dressed in dark jeans and a charcoal gray sweater.
He looks… enormous. And profoundly uncomfortable. His posture is rigid, shoulders tense, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his peacoat.
His expression is unreadable, a carefully maintained neutral mask, but I see the slight tightening around his eyes. It’s the look of a cat who’s just realized it’s wandered into a dog show.
“Hi, Tabby!” I beam, forcing my voice to sound light and welcoming, pushing down the flutter in my stomach. I crouch down to her level and gesture towards the small apron I’ve set aside for her – a miniature version of mine. “And look, I have an apron for you.”
Tabby’s gasp is pure delight. “For me?!” She quickly takes off her hat and coat and scrambles to put on the tiny apron, fumbling with the ties.
Denton remains by the door, silent and brooding. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken. He just watches, his gaze on Tabby’s frantic apron-tying.
I straighten up, meeting his eyes. “Mr. Blake. It’s nice to see you again.” I keep my tone light.
