His lips curve in a confused grin. “Okay. Both, then.”
“We’re going to need one person at the cookie decorating station, someone helping Rosie make drinks, and then we should probably get one of you over here at the coloring area.” Joe points around the bakery, directing Gavin, Auggie, and me to different spots in the room. “The kids will be here in about”—he flips his wrist to check his watch—“twenty minutes.”
“I’m taking cookies,” Auggie calls, making a run for the table covered in icing and sprinkle containers.
As Joe gets called away by a disgruntled volunteer, Gavin shrugs to me, hands shoved into his dark jeans. “I guess the choice is obvious here. You take the coloring, and I’ll take the drinks?”
“Are you implying I can’t handle the drinks?” I cross my arms over my chest and lance him with a glare.
He tilts his head. “I definitely think I could handle being Rosie's assistant, and you’d be better at the coloring station. No doubt in my mind.”
“Just for that.” I poke him in the chest, and his gaze lowers to where my red-tipped nail presses into his black sweater. “You’re on coloring duty. Isn’t that all you do for a living, anyway?”
A ghost of a smile flickers over his lips. “Yeah, I make all my plans and blueprints with crayons, actually.” He leans down, bringing our faces to the same level. “Have fun with that drink station, Lena.”
His voice sounds like a dare, and it only makes me more adamant to prove I can succeed.
But an hour later, I officially decide there should never be any food service or coffee-making jobs on my list. There’s a quarter-size burn on my palm from a mishap with the espresso machine, the rug behind the counter almost sent me careening into the trash can a few minutes ago, and a sweet little boy is now covered in chocolate milk because I didn’t get the lid secure before I handed it to him.
Theonlybenefit to this particular task is the scenery. From the espresso machine, I have the perfect view of Gavin as he sits surrounded by children, his big, hulking frame towering over them like a bodyguard. They laugh and snag crayons out of the box in the middle, while Gavin colors his own picture, the crayons dwarfed by his broad hands.
I’ve seen him with a kid on his lap, helping a crying child find the color they were looking for, letting a little girl draw on his picture, and using a piece of tape to hang a coloring page on the wall.
Why is all of that so goddamnhot?
“Lena, do you have that double shot?” Rosie calls over her shoulder with a warm smile.
Honestly, this woman is a saint. How has she not kicked me out of here yet?
“Yes, yes, I’m on my way.” I shuffle up beside her and set the warm cup next to the register.
As I’m struggling to dump the espresso grinds and start again, Gary rushes into the bakery, bringing a blast of cold air with him. He frantically searches the room until his gaze lands on Gavin, and his snow boots beat on the hardwood floors as he trudges toward him. When he reaches the coloring station, Gary motions toward the back hallway with a nod. Gavin whispers to the boy beside him, ruffles his hair, and then follows Gary into the back of the bakery.
Being the unapologetic snoop that I am, I lean over the counter to see what’s going on, but they're out of my view.
A moment later, Gary appears again, his gray hair mussed like he’s been running his fingers through it. “Rosie. Can you come back here for a moment?”
She gives me an unsure shrug and follows Gary down the hall.
What the hell is so serious that they need to have this secret meeting?
By the time I’ve warmed up a blueberry muffin and made a hot chocolate for a customer, Gary is rushing back out the front door.
“Lena,” Rosie hisses from the corner of the kitchen. “I need you.”
My curiosity peaks as I turn and follow her long blond hair down the hall.
But Gavin is nowhere to be seen. The space is empty, with only a back door and a supply closet to the left.
“Listen,” Rosie says, grabbing my shoulders. “I need a Mrs. Claus. Can you do it?”
Confusion prickles in my mind. “Me?” I look down at my black leggings and green sweater dress that look nothing like Mrs. Claus. “Right this second?”
“Yes and yes.” She picks up a zippered canvas bag from the floor and shoves it toward me. “Just put this on.”
I nod, but my brows tighten as I try to sort out the puzzle pieces of this situation. She nudges the bag into me, pushing me toward the storage closet. “Once you’re dressed, go out the back door,” she says, pointing over her shoulder. I think she tries to reassure me with a smile, but her wide eyes look rather manic.
She reaches around my hip and turns the handle, and before I can ask another question, she shoves me blindly through it. As I stumble back, two big hands grab my arms, and a masculine pine scent hits my lungs.
