Chapter 9
Denton
My phone buzzes against the granite countertop. I glance at the screen. Mom. Tabby’s chattering happily to her stuffed walrus at the kitchen table, oblivious, her small hands carefully arranging sprinkles on a piece of toast she’s deemed his ‘snack plate’.
“Daddy! Wally loves blueberries!” she announces, holding up a single, plump berry.
“One sec, Tabby Cat,” I murmur, already bracing myself as I swipe to answer. “Hi, Mom.”
“Denton, sweetheart!” Mom’s voice is full of exaggerated cheer, a stark contrast to the quiet of my kitchen. “Just checking in! How’s my favorite defenseman? And my absolute favorite granddaughter?”
I lean a hip against the counter, watching Tabby ‘feed’ Wally a blueberry. “We’re good. Just… gearing up.” For Operation Chaos, Round Two.
“Gearing up? For practice?” Her tone is gently admonishing, layered with the unspoken you work too hard, you need to live a little that’s been her refrain for the past three years.
“Not practice,” I clarify, the words feeling like gravel in my mouth. “The… baking lesson. At Sugar Rush. With Holly.” Saying her name feels strangely loaded now, after that moment in the bakery when she looked like a kicked puppy and I’d… reacted.
“Oh! The bakery!” Mom’s voice brightens considerably. “Sugar Rush! Such a darling little place. And Holly James… she’s just lovely, isn’t she? So warm. So talented. I can tell Tabby absolutely adores her.”
Here it comes. I take a large sip of too hot coffee, scalding my tongue. “Tabby enjoys the baking,” I state, keeping my voice neutral.
“Well, of course she does! It’s magical for a child! But you know…” Her voice drops into a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s wonderful for you too, Denton. Getting out. Trying something new. Meeting… people.”
The emphasis on ‘people’ is so heavy it could sink a battleship. I can picture her perfectly: perched on her elegant sofa, probably wearing something festive, her eyes sparkling with matchmaking fervor.
Since Tabby started kindergarten, Mom’s ‘casual’ mentions of ‘nice women’ at her book club, her bridge group, her damn gardening society, have become relentless. This feels similar. Like a direct shot on goal using Holly James as the puck.
“Mom,” I warn, the word clipped. “It’s a baking lesson. For Tabby. That’s all.” I keep my gaze fixed on the precise alignment of the salt and pepper shakers on the counter. “Holly is… good at baking.” The word feels inadequate, a lie by omission.
“Good?” Mom laughs, a light, tinkling sound. “Denton, be serious. That bakery is a marvel! The atmosphere! The creativity! And Holly… she radiates such joy. Such… life.”
She pauses, letting the word hang, loaded. “Exactly the kind of energy you and Tabby could use more of, don’t you think? Especially now. It’s been three years, sweetheart. Sarah wouldn’t want you to…”
“Don’t.” The word cracks out, sharper than I intended. Tabby looks up, her small brow furrowed. I force my expression to soften, giving her a tight nod.
She beams and goes back to Wally’s blueberry snack. I turn my back, lowering my voice. “Don’t bring Sarah into this, Mom. This isn’t about that. This is about Tabby wanting to bake a gingerbread castle. End of story.”
The silence on the other end is heavy. I hear her sigh, a soft, defeated sound. “Alright, Denton. Alright. I just… I worry. I see how hard you try to hold yourself together at all times. Life is messy and beautiful and… short. Too short to spend it alone, honey.”
I rub a hand over my face. “We’re not alone. We have each other. We have you. We’re… fine.”
“Fine isn’t happy, Denton,” she says softly, gently. “And Tabby… she deserves to see her father happy. Truly happy. Not just… existing.”
“Just… keep an open mind, okay? You might surprise yourself.” Her voice brightens again, a forced reset. “Give Tabby a huge hug from Grandma! And tell Holly I said her gingerbread reindeer in the window are so cute!”
I stare at the phone in my hand, the sleek black surface reflecting the overly bright overhead lights. Mom’s meddling is nothing new. Her relentless optimism, her belief in fresh starts and holiday magic… it’s as much a part of her as her perfectly coiffed silver hair.
But this time, she’s aimed it squarely at Holly James. And she’s not entirely wrong. Holly does radiate a kind of vibrant life that feels… strange. And undeniably attractive.
Attractive. The word slips past my defenses. I shove it down immediately. No. It’s proximity. Forced interaction. The novelty of stepping so far outside my comfort zone it feels like another planet. That’s all. I drain the last of the coffee.
“Tabby cat,” I say, turning back to her, my voice deliberately light. “Are you ready to build a gingerbread castle?”
Tabby jumps up immediately. “Yes! Let’s go!” She grabs her coat and slips it on.
The drive is short, through streets draped in holiday lights and plastic Santas that feel garish under the gray afternoon sky.
I park a block away, grateful for the walk to center myself.
The cold air bites my cheeks. Focus. This is for Tabby.
Maintain distance. Don’t engage. Stick to the game plan: one more session, fulfill the castle objective, then we’re done.
Inside Sugar Rush, the holiday frenzy is dialed up to eleven. Christmas music jingles relentlessly. Customers hang out at the counter, chatting loudly over steaming mugs. And in the center of it all, behind the counter, is Holly.
She’s a whirlwind in a bright red apron with candy canes. She’s laughing at something a customer said, her head thrown back. The sound is warm and bright, cutting through the din like a bell.
She spots us, and her smile widens, genuine and welcoming, directed straight at Tabby. Then her eyes flick to me. The warmth doesn’t vanish, but it… shifts. Her cheeks flush slightly, visible even from here.
“Holly!” Tabby yells, breaking free of my hand and darting towards the counter.
“Tabby! You’re here!” Holly grins, wiping her hands on her apron. Her eyes meet mine again, sparkling with that familiar, challenging warmth. “Ready for Operation Gingerbread Castle?”
“As ready as one can be for structural engineering with cookie dough,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral.
She laughs again, that bright, infectious sound. “That’s the spirit! Come on back! We’re all prepped!” She gestures towards the kitchen doorway, calling out instructions to Charlie, who’s manning the espresso machine.
Tabby grabs my hand again, pulling me forward. “C’mon, Daddy! The castle won’t build itself!”
We navigate the crowded shop floor. I feel eyes on me – curious, amused. The giant hockey player grumpy dad dragged along by his excited kid. By the time we push through the swinging door into the kitchen, my carefully constructed composure already feels frayed at the edges.
In the kitchen, every available surface is covered.
Giant sheets of deep brown gingerbread dough, already baked into what look like massive, uneven rectangles – the castle walls?
Towers constructed from stacked cookies cemented together with thick white icing teeter precariously.
Bowls of vibrantly colored icing – red, green, white, blue, gold – litter the central prep table like spilled paint.
Sprinkles in every conceivable shape and color are scattered like rainbow shrapnel. And glitter. So much glitter.
Holly is already in the thick of it, tying a miniature red apron around Tabby.
She’s talking a mile a minute, her hands gesturing wildly.
“…so these big pieces are the main walls, okay? We need to ‘glue’ them together with the thick icing – that’s the mortar!
Then we attach the towers… carefully! And then…
” She beams, holding up a piping bag filled with white icing. “The super fun part! Decorating!”
“Yes!” Tabby claps her hands.
Holly looks up at me, her cheeks still flushed, her eyes bright with the reflected glow of the lights and Tabby’s excitement. “Ready to get started?” She holds out a plain white apron.
I stare at it, then at the impending sugary disaster zone. Mom’s voice echoes: Enjoy the chaos. My own internal playbook screams: Defensive formation! Minimize exposure!
I slip the apron over my head, fumbling with the ties behind my back. It feels even more absurd than last time. Like a flag of surrender to the inevitable mess. Tabby giggles. “Daddy looks funny!”
“Yeah, I know,” I say, finally managing a clumsy knot.
Holly points to a large bowl filled with thick, snow-white icing.
“Mortar duty. We need a good, thick layer along the edges of this big wall piece.” She indicates one of the massive gingerbread rectangles.
“Then we brace it against this one…” She gestures to another piece leaning precariously against a stack of mixing bowls.
“…and hold it steady while the mortar sets.”
I approach the bowl of icing. It looks like industrial-grade adhesive. Tabby is already wielding a smaller spatula, attempting to spread icing along the edge of her designated piece, creating more of a wave than a neat line.
“Okay,” Holly says, bracing her hands against the gingerbread slab. “Ready? Denton, thick line of mortar here, on this long edge. Tabby, you keep working on your side, sweetie. Then, on three, we lift this guy and smoosh it against Denton’s mortared edge. Got it?”
“Smoosh?” I raise an eyebrow. “Is that the technical term?”
“The only term that matters in gingerbread architecture,” she retorts, her eyes sparkling. “Ready? One… two…”
I dip a wide metal spatula into the bowl of icing.
It’s cool and thick, clinging heavily. I focus on applying a precise, even line along the designated edge of the gingerbread slab Holly indicated.
Control. Precision. Tabby is humming off-key nearby, her spatula making enthusiastic splatting sounds.
“Three!” Holly calls.
We lift. The gingerbread slab is heavier than it looks, surprisingly dense. Holly grunts slightly with the effort. I focus on keeping my edge steady as we maneuver it towards the waiting, mortared edge of the other large piece. Tabby cheers.
“Easy… easy…” Holly murmurs, guiding her end. “Okay… now… contact! Apply gentle pressure!”
The two frosted edges meet with a soft, sticky thwump. I press firmly, feeling the icing ooze slightly from the seam. Holly adjusts the angle minutely. “Good! Hold it! Hold it steady! Tabby, can you grab those tomato cans? We need supports!”
Tabby darts off, returning with two hefty cans of tomatoes.
Holly positions them carefully against the base of the newly joined wall.
“Okay… holding… Denton, you can ease up a bit, just keep it braced.” She leans back, blowing out a breath that sends a wisp of hair fluttering.
A smudge of white icing decorates her cheekbone.
“Phase one complete! Walls are up!” She beams at Tabby. “Ready for the towers, sweet pea?”
“Yes! The tallest one!”
Holly laughs. “Tallest one it is! But it needs a good foundation.” She picks up a sturdy-looking cookie tower, already decorated with piped brickwork. “More mortar please, Denton. A big dollop at the base. We’ll plant it right… here.” She points to a spot near the corner of the joined walls.
I scoop another generous amount of icing onto my spatula.
Holly positions the tower base over the spot.
“Ready? Lower it gently… right into the icing… perfect!” She guides the tower down.
The thick icing acts like glue, holding it surprisingly firm.
“Okay, now… we need to brace this guy too. He’s a bit wobbly.
” She looks around. “Hmm… maybe that rolling pin? Propped at an angle?”
I reach for the rolling pin lying nearby at the same moment Holly bends to grab a wooden spoon that’s fallen on the floor. Her hand, reaching for the spoon, brushes against the back of mine.
It’s fleeting. Barely a whisper of contact but it ignites something shockingly hot.
My breath catches, strangles in my throat. My fingers spasm, and the spatula clatters onto the counter, splattering thick white icing across the gingerbread and the polished steel surface.
My gaze snaps to hers. Holly has frozen mid-reach, her hand still hovering near mine. Her eyes, wide and startled, meet mine. The playful energy, the focused determination of building the castle – it vanishes. Replaced by something else entirely. Something electric and undeniable.
What was that? The silent question hangs in the air.
I jerk my hand back as if burned. But it’s too late. The damage is done. The carefully maintained barrier, the lie that this was just about Tabby… it’s shattered. Obliterated by a single, accidental touch.
Tabby, blessedly oblivious, bounces over, holding another tower. “Look, Daddy! This one has a pointy top! Can we put it here?” She points to another corner.
Neither of us speaks for a moment. We just look at each other across the icing-smeared counter, across the scattered sprinkles and glitter, across the distance that just collapsed into nothing.
This isn’t just about baking cookies anymore.