Chapter 4
Denton
The door clicks shut behind us, sealing us inside the cinnamon-scented insanity. Tabby immediately tugs her hand free from mine and darts towards the counter, her little boots leaving damp prints on the worn floorboards. She heads right toward Holly.
I stand rooted just inside the threshold. Christmas music plays – some sickly-sweet pop rendition of a carol. It immediately grates on my nerves.
My gaze sweeps the room, a defensive scan. The elderly man from yesterday is in the corner, newspaper spread, watching us over his coffee cup. He’s the only customer.
Tabby reaches the counter, bouncing on her toes. “Holly! Holly! We came back! Like I promised! We need more cookies!”
Holly turns from where she was looking out the windows.
Now, she faces us, and the smile she plasters on is bright.
Too bright. But it doesn’t reach her eyes.
Those warm brown eyes look… tired. There’s a tightness around them, a subtle tension in the set of her jaw that wasn’t there yesterday during our initial confrontation.
She focuses entirely on Tabby, her expression softening into something more genuine as she crouches slightly. “Tabby! You did come back!” Her voice is warm, melodic, cutting through the jingle-jangle music. “So you need more cookies?”
“Yes!” Tabby beams, shoving the cookie towards her. “Can we make them? Now? Daddy said maybe!”
I did not say ‘maybe’. I said ‘we’ll see,’ which is dad code for ‘probably not, but I needed time to formulate a defensive strategy.
Holly’s gaze flicks up to mine, just for a split second. There’s a question there, maybe a flicker of the defiance I saw yesterday, but it’s overshadowed by that underlying weariness. She straightens up, brushing flour from the front of her apron – today’s features dancing snowmen wearing scarves.
“Well,” she says, her voice carefully neutral as she addresses me. “Mr. Blake. Back so soon.” She says it with amusement – like I’m a stray cat that’s wandered back onto her porch.
I clear my throat. The noise sounds too loud in the suddenly quiet bakery. The elderly man lowers his newspaper a fraction. Even the Christmas music seems to fade slightly, or maybe that’s just my perception narrowing to the impending awkwardness.
“Umm,” I manage, my voice coming out gruffer than intended.
I shove my hands deep into the pockets of my peacoat.
“Tabby… she wouldn’t stop talking about this place.
” About you. About the cookies. About the magic.
“And about… baking lessons.” I force the words out.
Baking lessons… What the hell am I doing right now?
Holly blinks. Her eyebrows lift slightly. “Baking lessons?” She glances down at Tabby, who is practically quivering with excitement, then back at me. Her gaze sharpens, assessing. “For… Tabby?”
“Yes.” One syllable. Clean. Direct. “She’s… enthusiastic.” Understatement of the year. Tabby’s been drawing pictures of gingerbread armies since breakfast.
Holly tilts her head, a stray curl escaping her ponytail and brushing her cheek. “And you… want me to teach her?” There’s a hint of disbelief, carefully masked.
I shift my weight. The worn floorboard creaks under my boot. State your terms. Control the play. “She wants to learn. From you. Specifically.”
I take a breath, steeling myself. This is where I impose order. “I understand your time is valuable. Especially this time of year.” My gaze flicks to the bustling street outside, the holiday shoppers. “I’d like to compensate you fairly. For your time.”
I pull my wallet out. I open it, extracting a black credit card. “Name your rate. Per session. I’ll cover materials, obviously.” I hold the card out.
Holly stares at the card. Her expression does something complicated.
The strained tiredness flickers, replaced first by surprise, then by something that looks suspiciously like…
offense? Her lips press together for a second.
She doesn’t take the card. Instead, she crosses her arms over her snowman apron.
The movement draws my eye to her chest. Focus, Blake.
“Mr. Blake,” she says, her voice losing some of its earlier forced warmth. It’s slightly cooler now. More like the woman who stood her ground yesterday. “I appreciate the offer. But I don’t run a… baking academy.” Her gaze flicks pointedly to the credit card.
A flush creeps up my neck. Penalty: Misreading the play. I keep the card extended, my arm starting to feel foolish. “It’s payment. For a service.” Keep it transactional.
“The service of teaching a little girl how to bake Christmas cookies?” Holly asks, her head tilting again.
There’s a spark in her eyes now. She looks down at Tabby, whose smile has faltered slightly, her dark eyes darting anxiously between us.
Holly’s expression softens instantly. She crouches down, putting herself at Tabby’s level.
“Hey, sweet girl. You really want to learn the secret ways of the gingerbread knights?”
Tabby nods vigorously, her curls bouncing. “Yes! Please, Holly? I wanna make magic cookies like you! With sprinkles! Lots and lots of sprinkles!”
Holly smiles, a real one this time. It transforms her face, warming her eyes, smoothing away the tightness around them. It’s like sunshine breaking through storm clouds. I feel an unexpected, unwelcome jolt low in my gut. Keep your head in the game, Blake.
“Magic cookies, huh?” Holly says softly to Tabby. “Let’s do it.” She glances up at me, her expression unreadable for a moment. She straightens up, brushing her hands on her apron. “Alright, Mr. Blake. Put your card away.”
I hesitate, the card still hovering in the air. “The payment—”
“Is unnecessary,” she interrupts, her voice firm but not unkind.
She meets my gaze directly. “I’ll teach Tabby to bake.
Consider it… a holiday favor. From one neighbor to another.
But,” she adds, “it needs to be scheduled. My afternoons are slammed until closing, especially this close to Christmas. Mornings are prep time.” She grins, a flash of perfect white teeth.
Relief wars with a deeper sense of being trapped. She agreed but no money was exchanged. That makes it… complicated. Less defined. But Tabby is practically levitating with joy beside me. Objective achieved. Primary goal: Tabby’s happiness. Check.
“Scheduled is good,” I say, finally lowering the useless credit card and shoving it back into my wallet. “What days? What times? I have… commitments.” Practice. Games. Team meetings. The rigid structure of my actual life.
Holly taps a finger against her lips, thinking. “Hmm. Late afternoons are out. Evenings… maybe? After closing? It’s quieter. Less… overwhelming.” Her gaze flicks to me, then quickly away. “Say… six o’clock? Starting… when?”
“Tomorrow?” Tabby pipes up, hopeful.
“Tomorrow is really soon, sweet pea,” Holly says gently. “And I imagine your daddy has plans?” She looks at me questioningly.
Plans. Right. The mandatory team ‘family’ skate at the practice rink. “We have obligations tomorrow evening,” I confirm, my voice tight. “A team event.”
Holly nods. “Ah. Right. Hockey player. Busy schedule.” There’s no mockery in her tone, just simple acknowledgment. “Well, how about Wednesday then?” She looks from me to Tabby. “Does that work for Operation Cookie Baking?”
Tabby’s face falls for a split second at the delay, but she rallies quickly. “Wednesday! Okay!”
“Wednesday,” I echo. The day I voluntarily walk back into this sensory overload zone. By choice. What the hell am I doing? “Six o’clock.” I pull out my phone, fingers moving automatically to input it into my calendar.
“Perfect,” Holly says brightly. She claps her hands together softly. “We’ll have so much fun, Tabby.” She winks at my daughter.
Tabby giggles, a sound like tiny bells. It hits me square in the chest, a physical sensation that steals my breath for a second. When was the last time I heard her laugh like that? Truly, freely? Not the careful, quiet giggles she offers sometimes, but this… effervescent burst?
Since before. Since her mother. The familiar ache sets in.
“Okay,” I say, my voice sounding rough. “Wednesday at six.” I reach out, placing a hand gently on Tabby’s shoulder. “Time to go, Tabby. Say thank you to Holly.”
“Thank you, Holly!” Tabby chirps, beaming up at her.
Holly’s smile softens again, genuine warmth returning to her eyes as she looks at Tabby.
“You’re very welcome, sweet pea. Both of you.
We’ll see you Wednesday.” Her gaze lifts to meet mine.
It’s still guarded, but the weariness seems momentarily lifted by Tabby’s enthusiasm. “Have a good day, Mr. Blake.”
“You too, Holly,” I mutter, already steering Tabby towards the door. Escape. I need escape.
As I push the door open, the cold Chicago air hits my face like a slap, welcome and bracing. I take a deep, cleansing breath.
Tabby skips ahead onto the snowy sidewalk, humming a Christmas song that was playing in the bakery. She’s practically glowing.
I follow, my steps heavy on the salted pavement. The cold seeps through my coat, a familiar sensation. “Tabby, wait up.”
Tabby stops and when I catch up, she grabs my hand, her mitten cold and damp.
“Daddy! I’m so excited Holly said yes! We’re gonna bake magic cookies!
” Her whole body is vibrating with anticipation.
Her dark eyes shine up at me, reflecting the lights strung along the street.
They’re full of a hope and a happiness that feels… fragile.
I squeeze her small hand gently. “I heard, Tabby Cat.” My voice is softer than I intended. “Magic cookies on Wednesday.”
She beams, swinging our clasped hands. “I can’t wait!”
We walk towards the car, the snow crunching underfoot. The knot in my chest hasn’t loosened. If anything, it’s tightened. I now have an appointment to spend Wednesday night in my own personal, sugar-dusted, cinnamon-scented hell.
But Tabby skips beside me, humming her off-key carol, radiating joy. A joy I haven’t been able to spark on my own. A joy sparked by Sugar Rush. By Holly James.
As I unlock the car door, helping Tabby climb into her booster seat, the cold metal under my fingers feels solid. Real. Ordered. But the warmth of her small hand lingers in mine, and the memory of her laughter echoes in the quiet car.
I slide into the driver’s seat, the leather cold against my back. I start the engine, the familiar purr filling the space. I glance in the rearview mirror. Tabby is grinning, already chattering to herself about Wednesday.
The knot in my chest twists. Trapped? Definitely.
Outmaneuvered by a five-year-old and a baker who refuses payment?
Absolutely. But as I pull away from the curb, leaving the circus of Sugar Rush behind, the weight in my chest isn’t entirely dread.
There’s a flicker there. Small. Insistent.
The flicker of Tabby’s happiness. Maybe… just maybe… it’s worth it.