But I had to keep my guard up, especially with the threat looming on the horizon. I couldn’t let my feelings for her get in the way of my job. I needed to stay focused, and giving in to whatever was happening between us would make me distracted.
Distractions got people killed.
And I wouldn’t put Gianina’s life at risk just because I wanted her.
About fifteen minutes later, Gianina emerged from her room. Her hair was in a long braid and she had changed into a sweatshirt and sweatpants. “We’re baking cookies.”
I arched a brow. “We’re doing what now?”
“Baking cookies. Christmas cookies to be exact.”
I chuckled. “Do I look like the domestic type to you?”
Looking me up and down, she snorted. “No. But it will keep your hands busy.”
I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t help but smile. “Lead the way, Betty Crocker.”
After raiding the pantry for flour and sugar, she gathered the rest of the ingredients while I grabbed a mixing bowl, whisk, and measuring spoons.
“We make these every year for Christmas. One of the only recipes I know by heart.” She started dumping ingredients into the bowl, then brushed a strand of hair from her face with the back of her wrist. There was flour on her cheek, but I didn’t tell her.
I steadied the bowl as she started to whisk. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”
She shot me a look. “Doubt me again and I’ll add salt instead of sugar. “ She flicked flour at me, which hit my shoulder, leaving a white streak against the black of my shirt.
I just stared at her. She grinned.
“Oh, you think that’s funny?” I asked, stepping closer.
“Maybe a little.”
So I reached into the bag, grabbed a pinch of flour, and tapped it right onto her nose.
She gasped, then laughed, bright and surprised, the kind of sound that didn’t belong in the situation we were in.
“You’re impossible,” she said, wiping her nose.
“And you’re messy,” I shot back, though the corners of my mouth betrayed me.
We went back to mixing, side by side. The rhythm of it; the clatter of utensils, the crackle of the fire — almost felt normal. Almost.
When Gianina leaned over to roll the dough, her shoulder brushed mine. She didn’t move away. Neither did I.
“Why do I get the feeling you don’t do this often?” she asked softly.
“Because I don’t.”
“Never?”
“Well, we did when I was a kid.” I grinned, thinking about my mom baking cookies with my brother and me. “Not so much as an adult.”
She smiled faintly. “We make these cookies sometime before Christmas. Then, my mom makes gingerbread cookies on Christmas Eve. The house always smells like sugar and cloves for days.”
“Sounds nice.”
“It is.” She paused, staring down at the dough as her smile faded. “This is the first year I won’t be at home with my family.”
The air shifted — not heavy, just quiet. I didn’t want to say sorry; apologizing for something like that seemed empty.
