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“Growing up. My mom baked most often, but once she started, the rest of us wandered in.” The dough was warmer and softer than she expected, and it stuck to the heel of her hand until she figured out how much flour she was supposed to be using. “There was always somebody opening a cupboard behind you, sneaking a taste from the bowl, or asking where the cinnamon was when it was right in front of them.”

“That sounds like a good kitchen.” Gabe shaped another bear. “Dana and the kids do the same thing here.”

“It was noisy. There was never enough counter space, even when there was plenty of counter space, because everybody wanted to be standing in the same three feet of it.”

“Still sounds good. Families are meant to be close.”

“They are.” It had been good. She missed it. The people underfoot, the mess, the sense that nobody had to be invited because they already belonged there. It was the kind of family life she had always imagined for herself one day. Only bigger and noisier.

She looked down at what was in her hands. Her bear appeared to have suffered some kind of accident. “I think he’s listening in two directions at once.”

“A useful skill,” Gabe said, straight-faced.

“You’re laughing at me.”

“A little.” Gabe wiped his hands on his apron and came around the corner of the table. “Here. Press in with your thumb instead of pulling.”

His fingers covered hers, warm and dusted with flour, guiding her thumb to press in and up along one side. Mara’s breath caught, which was ridiculous, because he was only showing her how to shape a piece of dough. But there it was again, that heightened awareness. She liked it far too much.

Gabe released her and went back around the table. “Try it now.”

“Right.” Mara looked down at the dough rather than at him and tried again. Her second bear was better. By the third, she had flour worked up both forearms and was far too pleased with the result.

“What do we do with them when they are baked?” she asked. “Because you’re right, they are not fit for sale.”

“They’re not so bad,” he said.

“Liar,” she replied.

“They’ll taste good. Even if they don’t look good,” Gabe admitted.

She gasped. “Wow, don’t sugarcoat it.”

“Hey, we just had a conversation about how much we value honest opinion,” Gabe reminded her.

“True,” she conceded. “It just seems a shame to waste them, and there are only so many cinnamon bears I can eat in one day.”

“Okay.” He thought for a moment. “I’ve got it. Toby and Nell might like one each. They’ll be in later.”

Mara raised an eyebrow. “Really? You’d inflict my misshapen bears on your niece and nephew?”

“Really,” he said. “Nell will say they have character.”

“They do.” She nodded as she admired her work. “So that’s two.”

“And the other one is for you.” He pointed at the first bear she had made. “You deserve it.”

“Want to split it?” she asked as heat crept across her cheeks.

“I’d be honored.” He bowed his head slightly. If it were anyone but Gabe, she’d suspect they were teasing her. But she got the sense he wasn’t.

“You might change your mind once you taste it,” she warned.

“Let’s get them in the oven, and then we’ll see.” Gabe slid the trays in while Mara washed her hands. Then he picked up her mug. “That’s cold. I’ll make you another.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Too late.” He carried it out front anyway, and Mara followed.