“Actually—” I begin.
“He’s with me. Hiswife. My husband.” My beautiful wife stands there in a red apron with white ruffles that remind me of drifts of snow.
The words hang in the air, and for a split second, confusion crosses the blonde’s face before she recovers. “Oh! I didn’t realize. You’re not wearing rings.”
Bree looks down at our bare hands, momentarily flustered. “We’re, uh?—”
“Still looking for the perfect ones,” I finish, sliding an arm around Bree’s waist.
She looks up at me briefly, a question in her eyes.
“Nothing but the best for my bride.”
The blonde retreats and the crowd disperses, leaving us in an awkward silence.
“Sorry,” Bree says, stepping away from my touch. “I didn’t mean to go all ‘possessive wife’ on you.”
“No, I liked it.” I bite my lower lip.
She flushes again, turning back to our cookies. “They need to go in now. Exactly twelve minutes.”
Bumping her with my shoulder, I say, “Or until golden brown on the top.”
We slide the trays into the oven, and I set the timer on my phone. When I look up, Bree is staring at the countertop, deep in thought.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Fine. Just thinking about the next step,” she says too quickly.
“Icing?”
“No, these don’t need—” She spots my grin. “You’re messing with me.”
“Maybe a little.”
On impulse, I dab a bit of leftover dough on her nose.
She gasps, outraged but laughing. “Fletch! You did not just do that.”
“What are you going to do about it?” I challenge.
A dangerous gleam appears in her eyes, and before I can dodge out of the way, she’s flicked flour at my face.
“Oh, it’s on now,” I warn, reaching for the sugar.
What follows is a tame food fight—nothing that would ruin our cookies or disrupt the other bakers, but enough to leave us both dusted with baking ingredients and breathless with laughter.
“You look like Santa,” she giggles, reaching up to brush flour from my hair.
“You look like Rudolph before his nose turned red,” I counter, wiping dough from her nose.
Our eyes lock. My pulse is like a kitchen timer, counting down. Her hand slides from my hair to the side of my neck. My thumb brushes her cheek. We’re close enough that I can count the freckles scattered across her nose and smell her melted chocolate and warm candle scent.
The timer on my phone blares, making us both jump.
“Gingersnaps,” Bree repeats, voice slightly husky and maybe spiced with disappointment.
Pulling myself from the haze that is Bree, I say, “Right. Cookies.”
