Chapter 24
Holly
“Hols! HOLY SNOWBALLS, YOU HAVE TO SEE THIS!”
Charlie’s voice cuts through the din of the mixer. She bursts through the swinging door from the front, her apron dusted with powdered sugar, eyes wide behind her thick-framed glasses. She’s waving her phone frantically.
“See what?” I ask, not stopping my kneading. I’ve got way too much to do right now and I’m totally in the groove.
Charlie skids to a stop beside me, shoving her phone under my nose. “Look! LOOK!”
On the screen is a photo. A really good photo, actually. Crisp and clear despite the gray afternoon light. It’s me, bundled in my red peacoat, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with defiance. And right beside me, solid as a brick wall is Denton.
His arm is wrapped firmly around my shoulders, pulling me tight against his side.
My head is tilted slightly towards him, resting against his shoulder.
He’s holding my “Heart of the Neighborhood” sign high, his expression not the fierce scowl I half-expected, but something…
steady. Resolute. Behind us, the blur of the protest crowd, signs held high, mouths open mid-chant.
The headline screams: BLADES’ DENTON BLAKE STANDS WITH LOCAL BAKERY AGAINST DEVELOPER! Wicker Park Rally Heats Up Over Beloved Sugar Rush.
My hands freeze mid-knead. Dough squishes between my fingers. “Oh,” I breathe.
“Oh?” Charlie echoes. “‘Oh’ is all you’ve got?
Hols, this is EVERYWHERE! Local news blogs, neighborhood feeds, the Blades fan forum—apparently they’re calling you ‘The Baker Girl’!
It’s trending! Look at the comments!” She scrolls down frantically.
“‘Denton Blake protecting what’s his? Swoon!’ ‘Sugar Rush is the best! Fight the greedy developers!’ ‘Who’s the lucky baker? ?’ ‘#SaveSugarRush #HockeyHero’!”
My gaze snags on the image again. On the way Denton’s holding me. Possessive. Protective. Like I belong right there, tucked into his side. Like Sugar Rush is worth fighting for. Worth his fight.
A warm, fizzy sensation, like perfectly proofed dough, rises in my chest, pushing against my ribs.
“He just… showed up,” I murmur, my voice thick with a sudden swell of emotion.
I wipe my doughy hands hastily on my apron, leaving streaks of flour and molasses.
“I didn’t even ask him to come. He was just there all of a sudden.
” The memory of that moment – the shock, the overwhelming surge of relief and gratitude – washes over me again.
Charlie grins, nudging me with her elbow. “Because he’s crazy about you.” She scrolls further. “Seriously, though, Hols. This is huge. The exposure? The public support? People are talking. Taviani can’t just sweep this under the rug now. Not with Denton Blake’s scowling mug attached to it.”
She points at the screen, at Denton’s focused, intense expression. “That right there? That’s the face of a man who’s decided Tony Taviani’s going down.”
Charlie’s right. It is huge. For the first time since Tony’s smarmy smile darkened my doorway, I don’t just hope we can save Sugar Rush; I believe it. The constant knot of anxiety that’s lived inside me for weeks loosens, replaced by an almost giddy confidence.
“He said he’d handle it,” I say, the words tasting sweet and certain on my tongue. I pick up the dough again, giving it a confident thump.
Charlie watches me, her grin softening into something more thoughtful.
She leans her hip against the counter, crossing her arms. “He’s definitely handling the ‘being ridiculously hot and protective’ part fantastically,” she concedes.
“But ‘handling’ Tony Taviani? That guy plays dirtier than a rat in a dumpster, Hols. Denton’s tough, yeah, but Tony’s a different kind of animal. He doesn’t fight fair.”
I wave a floury hand dismissively. “Denton’s smart. And he’s… Denton. He’ll figure it out.”
Charlie just hums, a noncommittal sound, but her eyes linger on my face, a flicker of that old caution I know so well. She doesn’t push it, though.
Instead, she grabs a stray gingerbread man from a cooling rack and bites its head off with gusto. “Well,” she says through a mouthful of cookie, “as long as Captain Grumpy-pants keeps looking at you like you personally hung the moon and the stars, I suppose I’ll reserve my doom-and-gloom.”
We fall into the familiar rhythm of bakery banter, the viral photo momentarily forgotten in the practicalities of frosting consistency and the next batch of dough needing to be rolled. But the warmth, the sense of being buoyed up by something powerful and good, stays with me.
The afternoon bleeds into evening. The post-work crowd thins, replaced by the cozy hush of a neighborhood settling in for the night.
I’m piping delicate holly leaves onto a batch of shortbread cookies, my focus narrowing to the tip of the bag, the smooth flow of green icing, when the back service entrance creaks open.
Denton steps inside, shaking snowflakes from his dark hair. He’s wearing a black wool coat over a gray sweater, looking effortlessly handsome.
“Hey!” I say, setting down the piping bag. Flour dusts my fingers, my apron, probably my cheekbone. Oh well. “You’re early. Tabby with your mom?”
He nods, closing the distance between us in a few long strides.
“Movie night. Something involving singing snowmen.” His eyes scan my face, lingering on the flour smudge I can feel on my cheek.
He reaches out, his thumb rough and warm as he brushes it away.
The simple touch sends sparks skittering down my spine. “How’s everything going here?”
“Great,” I report, leaning slightly into his touch. “Pretty sure we baked about two million cookies today. Just finishing the last of them. And Charlie’s out there, terrorizing crumbs.” I gesture towards the front.
His attention shifts to my phone sitting on the counter beside the cooling rack of shortbread stars. It’s buzzing incessantly. “What’s got you buzzing?” he asks.
The fizzy feeling returns. “Oh! You have to see!” I grab the phone, unlocking it quickly. My fingers tremble slightly with excitement as I pull up the article Charlie showed me. I thrust the screen towards him. “Look! It’s everywhere! Isn’t it amazing?”
I watch his face, eager for his reaction. For the shared triumph, the warmth, maybe even a hint of possessiveness seeing the picture. I expect the soft crinkles around his eyes, the slight quirk of his lips that passes for a grin.
It doesn’t come.
Instead, his expression hardens. The warmth in his eyes chills, freezing into something sharp and assessing. His gaze locks onto the photo, not with pride or amusement, but with a fierce, laser focus.
He takes the phone from my hand and zooms in slightly, his jaw tightening visibly. The muscle near his temple ticks.
I feel a sudden, cold drip of unease. “Denton?”
He doesn’t look away from the screen. His thumb swipes, scrolling down through the article text, his eyes scanning rapidly. His stillness is unnerving. It’s not the relaxed quiet I’ve come to cherish; it’s the coiled stillness of a predator sighting prey.
“This journalist,” he says, his voice flat, devoid of inflection. “Maddie Chilton. Is she reliable?”
“Uh… I think so?” I stammer. “She covered the bookstore protest last year when Taviani tried to push them out too. Seemed like a good journalist.”
His eyes lift from the phone, finally meeting mine. The storm-gray is icy now, focused with a chilling intensity. “Tell me exactly what Taviani has said to you so far. Any details you can remember.”
“The details? He… basically wants me out of the space ASAP. He’s delivered several offers. And the number keeps decreasing. He implied things could get problematic after the holidays. Legal stuff.”
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly chilled despite the bakery’s warmth. I try to keep my voice steady, but the memory of Taviani’s slick smile, the unspoken threat in his eyes, makes my stomach clench.
“He also mentioned issues with violations…”
“Violations?” Denton interrupts. His gaze is locked on me, unblinking. “What violations?”
“Oh, you know,” I wave a hand dismissively, trying to recapture some of my earlier bravado.
“The usual bogus stuff they dredge up when a small business annoys them. Fire code technicalities from decades ago, zoning complaints from phantom neighbors… his lawyers have a whole playbook. It’s all scare tactics.
Expensive, time-consuming scare tactics designed to make us give up. ”
I force a smile. “But it won’t work. Not now. Not with this.” I gesture towards the phone he’s still holding, the image of us united.
Denton doesn’t smile back. His expression remains carved from granite. He places my phone back on the counter with deliberate care. Then he leans forward, bracing his hands on the countertop on either side of me, caging me in without touching me.
His proximity is overwhelming, not in the usual warm, possessive way, but in its sheer, focused intensity.
“Tell me everything else, Holly,” he says, his voice low, each word precise and cold. “Every conversation you’ve ever had with Taviani. Every time he’s been here. Every threat, veiled or otherwise. Dates. Times. Who was there. What was said.” His eyes hold mine, demanding. “Leave nothing out.”
So I do. Haltingly at first, then with growing detail as the memories surface.
The first “friendly” offer over a year ago, disguised as concern for the neighborhood.
The gradual pressure. The sudden rent hike justification.
The anonymous code complaints starting right after I refused the second offer.
The veiled threats about “accidents” befalling businesses that didn’t cooperate.
I tell him about the fear that kept me awake at night, the feeling of being slowly suffocated, the desperate hope that community spirit would be enough.
As I speak, his stillness deepens. His jaw is clenched so tightly I can see the muscle standing out under his skin. The warmth in his eyes is completely gone, replaced by a glacial fury that makes my breath catch.
He listens with absolute focus, his gaze fixed on my face, absorbing every word, every nuance, like it’s critical game tape. He doesn’t interrupt. He just… absorbs. And the fire in his eyes burns brighter, hotter, with every piece of information I give him.
When I finally trail off, he pushes off the counter abruptly, straightening to his full height. He runs a hand through his hair. Then he looks down at me, his expression softening minutely, but the icy core remains.
“Okay,” he says, his voice still that unnervingly calm. “Okay, Holly. You don’t have to worry about this anymore.”
“What?” I whisper, searching his face. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he says, leaning down slightly, his eyes holding mine with an intensity that pins me in place, “that Tony Taviani just made the biggest mistake of his miserable life.” There’s no bravado in his tone.
No anger, even. Just a cold, hard fact. “He threatened what’s mine. And I don’t tolerate threats.”
The words should sound melodramatic. Over the top. Like something from a cheesy action movie. But coming from Denton, in that flat, deadly calm voice, backed by the glacial fury in his eyes, they feel like a vow.
“Denton…” I start, unsure what to say. Reassure him? Tell him it’s not necessary? But the certainty in his eyes silences me. He believes this. He will do this. For me. For Sugar Rush. The thought is overwhelming and… profoundly calming.
He leans in then, his lips capturing mine in a kiss. His arm wraps around my waist, pulling me flush against him. I melt into it, responding instinctively, the taste of him – coffee and cold air and that sharp, dangerous edge – flooding my senses.
He pulls back too soon, leaving me breathless, my lips tingling. His eyes scan my face, lingering on my lips, then meeting my gaze again.
And like a light switch, he goes back to only intense Denton rather than uber-intense Denton.
“Okay, now that we have that figured out… what should we do tonight?” he asks.
Oh my gosh, I think. What the actual hell is going on?
But I swallow hard and roll with it. “Takeout and a movie upstairs?”