Chapter 11
Toby
There was waking up early, and then there was what I was doing: dragging myself out of a toasty bed in the middle of the night.
In below-freezing temperatures. Not even the twinkle and glow of Christmas lights could soften the way frost nipped at my fingers and chased my heels the entire way to Bab’s Bistro.
The sun wasn’t even a hint in the blue-black sky as snow drifted across the streets, dusting everything with ice crystals and making me shiver inside my coat.
The street was empty except for the familiar mint-green Ford parked at the curb. I pulled up behind it and worked up the nerve to get out.
“This is your karma, Toby,” I told myself. “Christmas karma.”
Bitter wind reached for me the second the door was barely cracked.
Teeth chattering, I moved as fast as my stiff limbs would allow, racing toward the halo of light coming from the bistro door.
My sneaker slid on a patch of ice, but I righted myself and kept going, bell announcing my arrival as I pushed inside.
Warmth blasted my cheeks, and the scent of brewing coffee promised motivation. Reaching up to unwind my scarf, I realized I wasn’t even wearing it, as I’d been half-asleep when I got dressed.
The front of the bistro was empty and dim, with only a few lights on over the bar near the glass case and register.
Brighter light spilled from the back, and I followed it, pushing through a swinging door and squinting against the overheads.
The kitchen was smaller than I expected for the amount of food I knew Bab served.
But after a quick glance around, I knew it was efficient and filled with professional-grade appliances.
Two large islands filled the center of the space, one with a white marble top and the other stainless steel. The scent of molasses and cinnamon floated in the air, softening the unforgiving hour, and the ovens built into the walls chased away the winter cold.
“Coffee’s on,” Bab said on her way past with a tray bigger than her covered in gingerbread. “You look like you need it.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Do you do this every morning?”
She didn’t even look tired.
“Such a city boy.”
I glanced at Archer standing at the island with a mug shaped like Santa already in his hand. He was wearing yet another flannel, this one green and gray, and overtop was a vest that made him look broader than he already was. I didn’t even have to look past his jeans to know he was wearing boots.
Pretty sure all the man owned was flannel, jeans, and boots.
And his beard. Why’d it look so good this early in the morning? Scratchy and soft all at once, a sensory treat for my fingers… Forget tired. I was delirious.
Completely and utterly delirious.
“As if you’d be up this early either,” I muttered, trudging toward the coffee. I hoped it was strong.
A husky chuckle followed me, inducing a different kind of shiver than the frigid air outside.
There were two mugs sitting beside the coffee carafe, one shaped like a reindeer and one like a snowman. I grabbed the reindeer and inhaled the rich scent of the French press as I poured.
“Actually, I would,” came a voice from right behind my shoulder.
I jolted, coffee splashing over the side of the mug and onto my hand. “Ow,” I swore, setting down the pot and shaking off the droplets.
Archer made a quick hissing sound, his mug thunking on the counter as he leaned around me to grab a towel and my hand. “Let me see.”
“It’s fine,” I insisted.
He ignored the protest and tugged me around to blot the spilled brew off my skin. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t scare me. I just didn’t realize you were right behind me. Usually, you’re much louder.”
He laughed under his breath, the sound slipping out through the edges of his smile. I couldn’t help but notice his dimples and the way his skin crinkled at the corners of his blue eyes.
Tossing aside the towel, he crossed his arms over his chest to study me.
“You look like Paul Bunyan,” I blurted.
He arched a brow but said nothing.
Flushing, I spun back to the counter to finish pouring my coffee and add some maple syrup from a small decanter nearby.
“I made that,” Archer said, once again right beside my ear. This close, his voice was buttery and made me feel things I wasn’t supposed to.
“Bab, do you have any oat milk?” I asked, ignoring him completely.
“Oat milk,” Archer ridiculed. “What’s wrong with heavy cream?”
“It makes me bloat,” I retorted over my shoulder.
“In the cooler,” Bab called.
I walked across the kitchen to the cooler to get what I needed. When I turned back, Archer was leaning against the counter, one leg propped in front of the other, with the Santa mug back in his hand. His eyes sparkled with amusement as though the idea of me bloating was fun for him.
Jerk.
After a fortifying sip, I reminded myself to not be goaded by Archer’s infuriating snark. That was the entire reason we were here in the first place. If only I’d resisted the urge to argue with him last night, I’d be cozy in bed right now.
“Time’s wasting.” Bab summoned us. “I made the gingerbread,” she said, gesturing to several large baking trays. “Last one is still in the oven. Let it cool when it’s done.”
She pulled out a piece of paper and flattened it on the marble countertop. “Here is the icing recipe. Everything is here that you need. Start with that and then assemble the gazebo. Once it hardens, you can come back and decorate.”
“How do we know which pieces go where?” I wondered, gazing down the row of trays filled with different shapes of gingerbread.
“You’ll figure it out,” she answered.
“Is there a guide?” Archer pressed.
Bab reached into her ruffle-trimmed apron and pulled out a photograph. “I took this photo when I finished it.” She narrowed her eyes. “Before you boys broke it.”
She laid the photo in front of us, and I felt guilty all over again. It really was a beautiful piece. Clearly, she worked hard on it.
“You can use it,” she said as a timer went off across the room. “I have work.”
“Wait,” I called.
She didn’t wait. “I have to get these pastries made fresh. People will be here for breakfast soon.”
I looked at Archer. He seemed about as confident as I was, but I didn’t call to Bab again. She did have her own work to do, and this was our mistake to fix.
I picked up the paper with the icing recipe and read over the ingredients and instructions while raising my mug. The antler on the top stabbed me in the eye, and I jerked back.
Archer laughed.
Guess I should have gone with the snowman mug. Less dangerous.
“Get the mixer with the whisk attachment,” I said, pointing to a shelf where the large appliance sat.
“Who put you in charge?”
My eyes snapped up. “Would you rather find the pasteurized egg whites and powdered sugar?”
“I’ll get the mixer.”
“That’s what I thought,” I concurred.
After gathering what we needed and a brief lesson from Bab about cream of tartar, we started adding the ingredients into the large stainless-steel bowl.
“Wait!” I exclaimed as Archer lowered the whisk toward the bowl before I was finished adding in the confectioner’s sugar. “I need more.”
“Hurry up already,” he grumbled, pausing so I could add the rest.
Once it was added, he dropped the whisk in and switched it on. White powder flew up and burst in a cloud all over him. He flinched and spluttered, looking down at himself in shock.
I laughed, looking at the white coating clinging to his beard, the collar of his flannel, and both his arms. Unamused, he flipped the mixer off and laughed more as he waved away the haze of sugar floating in front of his face.
“Why didn’t you tell me it was going to do that?” he grumped.
“How was I supposed to know?” I asked innocently.
“Impatient,” Bab called.
“I wonder if we should add more to the bowl?” I considered. “Because a lot of it is on you.”
He glowered, and I laughed more, reaching over to pat his shoulder and creating a fresh cloud. Archer coughed and turned his face to the side.
“Maybe it will help sweeten your personality,” I said hopefully.
The look in his eyes was scathing. “I think it must be working because I’ve already resisted the urge to throw the entire bowl at you.”
“Or maybe not…” I muttered, thrusting a towel at him so he could clean up, and then I added a scoop of the powdered sugar to hopefully make up for what was lost. When that was done, I grabbed a small spatula and scraped down the sides of the bowl, gently incorporating everything at the bottom.
“You should always do this before going full blast,” I said as I worked. Once it was combined enough that I was confident it wouldn’t explode all over us again, I lowered the attachment and looked up, startled to find Archer staring.
“What?”
His reply was gruff. “Nothing.”
Ignoring my flipping stomach, I turned the mixer on the lowest speed, gradually increasing it until it was on high as the directions said.
“It says to let it beat for seven to ten minutes,” I announced, and we stood there awkwardly, wondering what we were supposed to do.
Seven minutes never felt so long.
I finished my coffee, sneaking glances at the whipping icing, noticing the high shine it was taking on. That was a good sign, right?
The tension between us knotted in my stomach, and I wondered how we were supposed to spend the next few days together in this tiny kitchen without making it so uncomfortable.
“So, ah, would you really already be awake by now?” I asked, deciding to try small talk.
“The trees don’t cut themselves down.”
“But it’s dark out. How can you see?”
Archer eyed me for a moment and maybe came to the realization I was only trying to make this less miserable because he sighed. “I have some lights. Plus, the sun comes up fast.”
“You must see the sunrise a lot.”
He made a sound of agreement. “Yeah.”
“I bet that’s beautiful. Watching it rise over the farm.”
“Better than a city view.”
“How would you know?” I quipped.
“What?”
“Have you ever seen the sunrise in the city?”
“No.”