I chuckle. “For cookies?”
“Baking is science, Fletch. Precise measurements and the order of operations matter.” She’s already scanning the recipe with the same focused expression she gets when working on her manuscript.
“But it’s baking.”
“We need to cream the butter and sugar first, then add molasses, followed by the already pre-combined dry ingredients—but we have to make sure we sift the flour first.”
“Or we could mix it all together and see what happens. Sometimes improvisation leads to surprising results.”
Bree looks horrified. “That’s not how baking works.”
“Says who?”
“Says everyone! Nina would back me up. She’s a professional.” Bree gestures toward the Busy Bee Bakery owner, who’s supervising the sugar cookie station along with Whit, Redd’s wife, who runs the Milk Mustache Cookie food truck.
“Sure, they’re pros, but where’s the fun in that?”
“Could you please take this seriously?”
I raise my hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. We’ll do it your way. Find me an apron, and I’ll roll up my sleeves.”
Bree rummages through a box of aprons, eventually handing me one that reads “Kiss the Christmas Cook.” When I turn back, I catch her with a dazed, dreamy look while staring at my forearms as I roll up my sleeves.
“Like what you see, Mrs. Turley?” I tease.
A blush spreads across her cheeks. “Just making sure you don’t get flour on your shirt,” she mutters, but her eyes linger a moment longer.
Bree, measuring with scientific exactitude, is adorable as I mix and roll the dough into perfect little balls. Our arms, hands, and bodies brush as if we’re finally comfortable with each other, even though the pillow partition remains in our bed.
“You’re surprisingly good at this,” Bree admits, watching me arrange the cookies with even spacing.
I wink. “I have many hidden talents.”
“And there I thought you were going to make a mess.”
“My mom always drafted me to help with Christmas baking duty. Said my hands were the perfect size for measuring cookies. But my real specialty is toasted peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”
Bree’s smile reaches her eyes, but then rapidly falls. “I always made peanut butter cookies every Christmas Eve by myself.” Sadness tinges her voice and I wonder how her mother’s comments about love and relationships affected her. It breaks my heart to imagine her alone without anyone there to enjoy her cookies with.
“What about this Christmas Eve? Can we continue the tradition together? The countdown is on.”
She nods, something soft and vulnerable crossing her face. “I guess so.”
Our moment is interrupted by a high-pitched squeal from the next station.
“Oh my, you’re Fletch Turley!” A blonde woman in a tight red sweater abandons her oatmeal raisin preparation and approaches our table. “I’m such a huge fan! When are you coming back to play? The teamneedsyou!”
Before I can answer, three more people materialize, phones in hand, held aloft and capturing photos and video.
One of the women asks, “Can we get a selfie with you?”
“Are you going to make the playoffs this year?” Another bounces on her toes expectantly.
The third doesn’t so much as meet my eyes as she watches my lips while licking hers. “How’s the jaw healing?”
I slip into my public persona with practiced ease, smiling for photos and answering questions politely. The blonde isparticularly persistent, touching my arm whenever she laughs at something I say, leaning in closer than necessary.
“Do you need a baking buddy?” she asks, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.
