Chapter 8
Holly
My fingers fumble with the light switch.
The soft glow from the mismatched lamps I found at a flea market last summer washes over the small living room in my apartment above the bakery.
I look around at the bookshelves overflowing with cookbooks and well-loved novels, a worn velvet sofa draped in a chunky knit throw the color of cinnamon, framed black and white photos on the walls. This place feels tired. Like me.
I shrug off my cardigan, the one with the slightly unraveling sleeve, and let it drop onto the arm of the sofa. I wrap my arms around myself, acutely feeling all the stress of the day.
The image of that piece of paper on my counter flashes through my mind. How do I fight this? How do I save this place that I’ve poured everything into?
My gaze drifts to the small, framed photo on the bookshelf: me and Mom, grinning like fools, on the opening day of Sugar Rush. Her eyes, the same warm brown as mine, sparkled with the same impossible hope I’d felt that day.
I need a friendly voice. Someone who knows what I’m going through. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I sink onto the sofa and tap Charlie’s name. She answers on the second ring.
“Hey, girl. How was the rest of your day?”
A weak laugh escapes me. “Pretty good until Tony Taviani showed up. Again…”
Silence for a beat. “Again? When? What did that slimeball want?”
I curl my legs under me, pulling the throw around my shoulders. The soft yarn is a small comfort. “He came by this afternoon after you left. With another guy.”
I swallow, forcing the words out. “He delivered a new offer. Lower. Much lower.” My voice cracks on the last word. “He said it was a ‘final gesture of goodwill’ before the New Year. After that…” I trail off. “He basically said I need to take it, or things are going to get really bad for me.”
“That vulture,” Charlie hisses, the sound crackling down the line. “He can’t just bully you like this! We’ll fight him, Hols. We’ll… we’ll start a petition! Get the neighborhood involved! Bake protest cookies!”
Her outrage is a warm ember in the cold pit of my stomach.
“Protest cookies,” I murmur, a small smile touching my lips.
“I like it. Maybe with ‘Hands Off Sugar Rush’ piped in angry red icing.” The image is absurd, but for a second, it pushes back the panic.
Charlie always knows how to make me feel better.
“Exactly!” she declares. Then her voice softens. “But seriously, Hols. This is bad. Did he actually threaten legal stuff?”
“He used the word ‘legalities’. Said they’d be a drain on resources ‘a small operation like yours can ill afford’.” I parrot his oily tone, the memory making my skin crawl.
“He made it sound inevitable. Like resisting is just… delaying the inevitable.” The fear I’d held at bay in the bakery surges back.
My fingers twist in the soft yarn of the throw. “Charlie, what if he’s right? What if I’m just… clinging to a sinking ship?” The admission, voiced aloud to my best friend, feels terrifyingly real.
“Stop it,” Charlie commands, her voice firm.
“He’s not right. We’ll figure this out. We always do.
Remember the Great Fondant Flood of ’19?
Or when the health inspector tried to shut us down because of Reginald?
” Reginald was our briefly adopted, slightly feral bakery cat.
“We survived. We’ll survive Tony the Terrible, too. ”
I take a shaky breath, pulling the throw tighter. “Thanks, Char. I needed that.”
I hesitate. There’s more. The other big thing that happened today, the one that had nothing to do with Tony and everything to do with storm-gray eyes and a quiet question that shattered my control. “Something else happened. After Tony left.”
“What?” she asks.
“Denton Blake and Tabby showed up to buy some cookies.” I swallow hard. “Tony had just walked out. I was… I was a disaster, Charlie.”
Charlie lets out a low whistle. “Perfect timing for Captain Control Freak.”
“That’s the thing,” I say slowly, the memory sharp and vivid. “He didn’t… react like I expected. Tabby ran ahead, excited, but Denton… he stopped. He looked at me. Really looked.”
I close my eyes, seeing it again. The way his usual scowl had deepened, then sharpened into something else entirely. “He asked if I was okay.”
Silence. Then, cautiously, “That’s… interesting.”
“Yeah. Just… ‘You okay?’” I mimic his low, gravelly tone. “And he just… stood there. Looking back at the door. Like… like…”
“Like he was guarding it?” Charlie finishes, her voice laced with disbelief.
“Yes.” The word comes out on a breath. “Exactly. Like he sensed a threat and decided to plant himself in front of it. In front of me.” The absurdity of it hits me again.
Denton Blake, acting as my… protector? “His whole posture changed, Charlie. It wasn’t grumpy. It was… protective.” Saying it aloud makes it feel even more improbable.
Charlie is quiet for a long moment. I can almost hear the gears turning in her brain. “Okay,” she says finally, drawing the word out. “So, Grumpy McHockeyPants showed a flicker of human decency. In the presence of obvious distress.”
“It felt like more than that,” I insist, the warmth of that moment flooding back. “The way he looked at me… it wasn’t judgment. It was… concern? And then he asked who that guy was.”
“He asked about Tony?” Charlie’s voice sharpens.
“Yeah.” I trace the pattern of the throw with my fingertip. “I brushed it off. Said Tony was just a pushy salesman.”
“Good,” Charlie says firmly. “Keep it that way. Denton Blake might have momentarily played knight in shining armor, but he’s not part of this fight. Bringing him into the Sugar Rush saga is just asking for complications we don’t need.”
She’s right. Of course she’s right. Denton is a complication wrapped in an enigma, dipped in emotional unavailability.
He has Tabby, his hockey career, his carefully controlled world of ice and strategy. My crumbling cookie empire is the last thing he needs, or wants, to deal with.
“I know,” I sigh, leaning my head back against the sofa cushions. The weariness is bone-deep. “I’m not telling him. I just… wanted to tell you. About how it felt.”
Charlie’s sigh is audible, a mixture of affection and exasperation. “Oh, Hols. Sweet, sunshiney, hopelessly romantic Hols.” Her voice softens. “I know how it felt. It felt like a glimmer. A tiny spark of ‘maybe’. And that’s the dangerous part.”
I close my eyes. She’s hitting the nail squarely on the head. Just like she always does.
“Listen,” she continues, her tone gentle but firm. “He’s hot. Undeniably. Brooding and complicated and emotionally unavailable in a way that probably makes your romance novel heart do backflips. I get the appeal, okay? On paper, he’s basically your kryptonite wrapped in a hockey jersey.”
I can’t help but smile. She’s not wrong.
“But Hols,” her voice takes on that ‘best friend delivering hard truths’ edge, “he’s got more walls than a medieval fortress, and they’re topped with emotional barbed wire.
“And you?” She pauses for effect. “You build gingerbread castles and think sprinkles are a primary food group. You wear your heart on your apron for everyone to see. You fall fast and you fall hard, and your track record with finding men who actually appreciate that is… well, not very good.”
A parade of handsome faces flashes through my mind – the accountant who thought my business plan was ‘adorable’, the musician who found my early mornings ‘oppressive’, the graphic designer who politely suggested I might be ‘a bit much’ for his minimalist lifestyle.
Charlie’s been there for every heartbreak, handing out ice cream and sarcasm in equal measure. She knows the pattern. My hopelessly optimistic heart sees potential, throws itself headlong into the possibility of love, and ends up… devastated and alone.
“I know my track record sucks, Charlie,” I say quietly. “Believe me, I know.”
“It’s not that it sucks,” she corrects, her voice softening. “It’s that you deserve someone who sees the magic, Hols. Someone who doesn’t make you feel like you have to dim your light or clean up your life to be loved.”
“Denton Blake?” She lets out another sigh. “He looked at Sugar Rush like it was a five-alarm fire hazard the first time he walked in. His default setting is suspicion and control. Is that really what you’re looking for?”
Charlie’s right. He’s not the prince charming from my favorite romance books. He’s a fortress. A handsome, complicated fortress.
“No,” I whisper, the word feeling heavy. “It’s not.”
“Exactly,” Charlie says, relief evident in her voice.
“So, have fun with the baking lessons. Make Tabby happy. Maybe even enjoy the view – I won’t blame you, the man is sculpted.
But for the love of all that is holy, Hols, don’t go building a gingerbread house in your head where you two live happily ever after. Protect yourself. Okay?”
Protect yourself. It’s the opposite of my usual approach. My heart usually leads the charge, dragging my common sense behind it like a reluctant toddler.
But Charlie’s voice, laced with the wisdom of past heartbreaks and fierce love, resonates. Denton Blake is emotionally treacherous territory. Getting my hopes up… it’s the one luxury I truly can’t afford right now.
“Okay,” I say, forcing conviction into my voice. “Okay, Char. I hear you. Loud and clear. No gingerbread castles in the sky. Got it.” I manage a small laugh. “I’ll stick to the edible kind. Less heartbreak potential.”
“Atta girl,” Charlie says, her voice warm with approval. “Now, try to get some sleep? Big castle-building day tomorrow. Operation Gingerbread Fortress, or whatever you’re calling it.”
“Operation Gingerbread Castle,” I correct automatically, a smile touching my lips despite everything. “And yeah. Sleep. Good plan.”
Charlie yawns. “Night, Hols.”
“Night, Char. Love you.”
“Love you more, sunshine.”
I push myself off the sofa, the weariness still there but less jagged. Padding into the small kitchen nook, I flick on the kettle. Chamomile. Something calming.
While it heats, I wander over to the small desk tucked under the eaves, piled with recipe notes. My sketchbook lies open, half-covered by a stray flyer for the neighborhood tree lighting.
I pick it up, the familiar texture of the paper under my fingers. Absently, I flip past pages of cookie designs, cupcake concepts, whimsical gingerbread houses. My fingers reach for a pencil that’s nearby. I shouldn’t. I should go to bed.
But the image is there, vivid in my mind: Tabby’s excited face, her small hands eager to build.
I think about an idea for a castle. A snowy courtyard. A tiny gingerbread knight standing guard. Maybe a little sledding hill made of piped white icing. A sparkly moat of blue sugar crystals…
The pencil moves almost of its own accord.
Light, quick strokes sketch the outline of the castle walls, taller and more elaborate than our previous efforts.
I add turrets dusted with snowy powdered sugar, arched doorways piped with dark chocolate.
A courtyard takes shape, and there, a tiny figure with a pretzel-stick sword.
Then another figure, smaller, beside him.
My hand hesitates. Then, almost without thinking, I sketch a taller figure near the castle gates. Broad-shouldered, standing watch. It’s just lines, simple shapes, but the stance… rigid, protective, a hint of reluctant presence. Denton.
I stare at the sketch. It’s too much. Too elaborate. Too… hopeful. Charlie’s voice rings in my ears: Don’t go building a gingerbread house in your head… This sketch, this silly, whimsical scene… it feels like exactly that. A blueprint for a fantasy.
I should close the book. Put the pencil down. Remember the accountant, the musician, the graphic designer. Remember Tony’s sneering face and the numbers on that sheet of paper. Remember Charlie’s fierce, loving voice.
But the warmth of that moment in the bakery – Denton’s quiet question, his solid presence blocking the door, the fleeting glimpse of something protective beneath the grumpy exterior – it lingers.
My fingers tighten on the pencil. I add a few more details to the snowy courtyard. A tiny sled. A cluster of candy cane trees. My rational mind screams caution, but my heart… my traitorous, optimistic heart… is already mixing the icing sugar and dreaming of turrets.
The kettle whistles, a sharp, insistent sound in the quiet apartment. I set the sketchbook down, the half-finished gingerbread scene staring up at me. It’s ridiculous. Over-the-top. Exactly the kind of thing Charlie warned me about.
I walk to the kitchen, pour the hot water over the chamomile teabag, watching the pale gold swirl into the cup. I carry the cup back to the sofa, curling up again under the cinnamon throw.
Charlie is right. I know she is. Getting my hopes up is a recipe for disaster. Denton Blake is a fortress, not a fairy tale. Sugar Rush needs my focus, my fight.
But as I sip the hot tea, the warmth spreading through me, the sketch seems to glow softly in the lamplight. It’s just a drawing. Just a silly idea for a baking lesson. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just… planning. Making it special for Tabby.
And despite knowing better, despite the parade of past heartbreaks and the very real threat to everything I’ve built, the feeling blooming in my chest as I look at that sketch isn’t fear, or even sensible caution.
It feels, terrifyingly, hopefully, like a gingerbread dream I have no business building.