Chapter 1 #2
The girl doesn’t answer Charlie. She takes a few hesitant steps further into the shop, her little boots leaving damp prints on the worn floorboards.
Her gaze sweeps the room, taking in the twinkling lights, the glittering cookies, the towering cakes, finally landing on me, covered in flour, holding a lump of fragrant dough.
A tiny, awestruck smile touches her lips. She points a mittened hand towards the gingerbread houses. “Are those castles?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper.
My heart melts faster than chocolate on a hot stove. Kids in the bakery are one of my greatest joys. “They look like castles, don’t they?” I say, keeping my voice gentle, matching her wonder. I wipe my hands quickly on my apron. “Yummy, crunchy castles. Did you come to see the gingerbread kingdom?”
She nods solemnly, her dark eyes huge. She takes another step, drawn like a moth to the warm, sugary light. Charlie shoots me a look – equal parts amusement and concern. A child this young, alone in the snow?
“Is your mommy or daddy outside?” Charlie asks again, crouching slightly to be at the girl’s level. “Did you get separated?”
The little girl finally tears her gaze away from the gingerbread houses to look at Charlie.
She shakes her head, her curls bouncing.
“Daddy’s shopping,” she announces matter-of-factly, pointing vaguely out the snow-blurred window towards the bustling street market visible down the block.
“For… for boring things.” She wrinkles her nose adorably.
“I saw the sparkles.” She points back to the lights framing the window. “It’s like magic.”
“It is magic,” I agree, moving slowly out from behind the counter, drawn to her innocent wonder. It’s a balm against my earlier worries. This is why I do this. This moment. “Gingerbread magic. My name’s Holly. What’s yours?”
She considers me for a moment, those dark eyes assessing. “Tabby,” she says finally. “Like the cat. But I’m not a cat.”
“It’s lovely to meet you, Tabby-Not-a-Cat,” I say, smiling. “How old are you?”
Tabby holds up five fingers, as she exclaims, “Five!” What kind of parent would let this adorable five-year-old out of his sight for even one minute?!
“Would you like a closer look at the castles? Maybe pick out your own cookie?” I gesture towards the display case filled with smaller, individually wrapped gingerbread men.
Her eyes light up like stars. “Yes!” She takes another eager step forward, then pauses, remembering her manners. “Please,” she adds softly.
Charlie straightens up, her gaze scanning the street outside through the window. “I’ll just pop outside, Hols, see if I can spot a panicked dad shopping for boring things,” she murmurs, already heading for the door. “Keep Miss Tabby entertained.”
As Charlie slips out into the swirling snow, I crouch down near Tabby, keeping a respectful distance. “So, Tabby, what kind of cookie should we pick? A brave one with lots of buttons? Or a sneaky one with a chocolate sword?” I open the display case, releasing another wave of spicy-sweet aroma.
Tabby presses her mittened hands and nose against the glass, her breath fogging it slightly. “A brave one!” she declares. “With… with a hat!” She points to one decorated with a piped white chef’s hat, a leftover from a baking class.
I retrieve the cookie, its little candy eyes and smile beaming up cheerfully. “Here you go, brave Sir Gingerbread,” I say, handing it to her in a small paper bag. “He’s on guard duty now, protecting you.”
She takes the bag reverently, clutching it to her chest with both mittened hands. “Thank you,” she whispers, her eyes shining. She takes a small, careful bite of the cookie’s hat, her expression one of pure bliss. It’s a look that could power the entire block’s Christmas lights.
For a moment, the weight of the bills, Tony Taviani’s smarmy smile, the groaning oven – it all fades away, replaced by the simple, profound joy of making a child happy with something I created.
But suddenly, the peaceful moment shatters like dropped fine china.
The bell above the door doesn’t chime this time; it’s nearly ripped from its hinges as the door bursts open with terrifying force. A blast of frigid air roars into the bakery and snow swirls in like angry ghosts.
A man fills the doorway.
He’s enormous. Not just tall, though he must clear six-foot-four easily, but broad-shouldered and powerful, radiating an intensity that instantly chills the cozy air more than the winter storm outside.
He’s dressed head-to-toe in sleek, dark athletic wear that clings to his body. Snow dusts his dark hair. His face is all sharp, unforgiving angles – a blade of a nose, a jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle ticking beneath the skin, high cheekbones flushed from the cold or fury.
But it’s his eyes that freeze me in place. Storm-cloud gray, wide with a panic so raw, so primal, it borders on fury. They scan the room with laser focus, wild and desperate, bypassing the lingering couple, the cozy fireplace, the glittering displays, until they lock onto Tabby.
“Tabitha!” It’s a ragged gasp, torn from his throat, thick with relief and something darker, sharper. Fear. Pure, undiluted terror.
Tabby spins around, her mouth still full of cookie, crumbs dusting her pink coat. “Daddy!” she chirps, her voice muffled but cheerful, utterly oblivious to the hurricane that just entered the room.
He’s across the small space in three strides that shake the floorboards. He drops to his knees in front of her with a thud that makes the nearby tables tremble, his large hands coming up to frame her small face, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the frantic energy pouring off of him.
He scans her from head to toe, his gray eyes searching for injury, his breath coming in short, visible puffs in the suddenly frigid air near the door.
“Are you hurt?” His voice is low, gravelly, strained. And it’s frayed at the edges with panic.
Tabby swallows her cookie, blinking up at him. “I’m okay, Daddy! Look!” She holds up the half-eaten gingerbread man. “Sir Gingerbread! This nice lady gave him to me! He lives in the castle!” She points proudly towards the display.
His gaze flicks from the cookie to Tabby’s face, the panic receding slightly, replaced by a wave of such profound relief it momentarily softens the harsh lines of his face. But then his eyes snap up, past Tabby, and land squarely on me.
The relief vanishes, replaced by an icy blast of accusation that hits me like a physical blow. His eyes, now narrowed and sharp as flint, rake over me – taking in my flour-dusted apron, my messy hair, the smear of gingerbread dough I know is on my cheek.
His expression hardens, the earlier vulnerability completely replaced by a wall of impenetrable, intimidating coldness.
He rises to his full, imposing height in one fluid motion, pulling Tabby protectively against his leg.
His gaze never leaves mine. The warmth has been completely sucked out of the bakery.
The twinkle lights seem dimmer, the festive music tinny and distant.
The lingering couple has fallen silent, watching the scene with wide eyes.
“What,” he grinds out, his voice dangerously low, each word clipped and precise, carrying the chill of the winter storm outside, “are you doing with my daughter?”