Chapter 8
Chapter eight
Two hours later we’re back in the kitchen surrounded by grocery bags. They cover every counter space plus the kitchen table.
“Hey, what’s all that moanin’ and groanin’ for?” Grant asks as he finds room for the last bag.
Grant shakes his head and calls me a lightweight before tugging me away toward the table.
“Hey!” I say, but quiet down as he steers me to a chair.
“Rest up, Princess. You still got some baking to do.”
I shake my head. “Nope. Not today. The butter has to be at room temperature, and thanks to someone trying to buy out the whole store, it won’t be soft for at least another hour.
I fear I’ll be too tired by then and I need to be alert when I bake.
I don’t have forever to nail these before Ivy gets back, and they need to come out perfect. ”
He twists his lips to the side, considering. “Did you soften the butter earlier?”
“Yes.”
“And did the cookies come out perfect?”
Grant’s lucky looks can’t kill. I give him my best death glare anyway. “I swear, it’s like every day you wake up and choose trouble.”
“Consider me guilty as charged,” he says before looking me up and down, slow and appreciative. “Good thing I know a smart and sexy lawyer who can get me off the hook.”
Straight to jail! I want to shout, but then he’ll know that heated look and smooth baritone is getting to me.
“I don’t know why I even bother with you.” I grab my phone from my pocket so I have something else to focus on.
I do my best to ignore Grant as he rattles around the kitchen finding space for all the food, opening cabinets, and using the microwave.
After a few minutes it feels wrong sitting here while he works.
I don’t know if that’s guilt talking, or because I’m not used to a man actually pulling his weight without having to be asked.
Just when I think I should offer to at least put up the three boxes of cereal Grant couldn’t choose between, he spins toward me.
“Bam!” He sets a stick of butter in front of me the same way I did the list, though not nearly as forcefully.
“Bruh, what are you doing?”
“You said you need your butter at room temperature. So, there you go.” He folds his arms across his chest looking all proud and smug. “Don’t say Big Daddy Grant never did anything nice for you.”
“This is the second time in one day that you’ve referred to yourself as Big Daddy, and I need you to get that under control real quick.”
I quirk an eyebrow, staring at Grant expectantly until he bows in defeat. “Yes, Your Honor.”
My lips twitch and I turn back to the butter before he can see the smile threatening to break through. I press a finger against the wrapper, and it gives. Perfectly softened.
I stare up at Grant. “What kind of holiday sorcery is this?”
“No sorcery. All Big Dad—” he catches himself. “That’s all me.”
I get up and follow him back to the counter. “If you’re trying to tell me you’re a handy man, baby expert, and kitchen genius, I will send you packing right now,” I say lightly but I’m only halfway joking. No man is this perfect at everything.
“See, I told you there’s a lot you don’t know about me.
” He slips the apron over my head, then twirls a finger for me to turn around.
His voice comes warm at my back as he ties the strings.
“But for your information, my mom taught me that trick. One time she forgot she was supposed to bring cookies to my league’s end of season party happening that day.
She showed me how to heat a glass dish to get the butter ready fast.”
When he’s done, I face him again. “Let me guess, she only forgot because you forgot to tell her you signed her up?”
He presses a finger to his mouth. “Shhh. As far as she’s concerned, it slipped her mind in the chaos of three kids and five different activities.”
I know I’m in trouble, because the way his lips curve around that finger make mine ache, and I’m imagining him bending down to lay the same touch against my mouth.
“Alright,” Grant says, thankfully oblivious to the scene playing in my mind. “Let’s get this cookie party started. What’s first?”
“You’re staying?”
“Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t let Ivy or Ms. Thomas down.”
And of course he doesn’t give me the chance to argue. He slips on one of Dad’s old aprons and waits for me by the hand mixer and bowls he already set up. I grab the butter off the table, and we get started.
Grant watches me cream the butter and sugar, then takes over when it’s time to add the eggs. His hands may be made for basketballs, but he cracks the delicate eggs with careful precision, allowing only the yolks to slide into the bowl.
“What?” he asks when he catches me staring.
My cheeks heat and I shake my head. “Nothing. You’re just so zoned in.
It reminds me how Grant got Ivy and me tickets to one of your games when they first started dating.
It was your turn to make some free-throw shots and while the crowd was going wild, you were focused on nothing but the goal post.”
He pauses for a beat, and I catch the flicker of sadness in his eyes before he covers it with mock seriousness, shaking his head. “Basketball does not have goal posts. Totally different sport. And of course I’m in the zone. There’s one thing I don’t play about—egg handling.”
Ivy mentioned before how Grant doesn’t like to talk about basketball, and now I see it for myself. His old career is clearly an open wound for him, and I have no intention of poking it.
So, instead I squint at him and tilt my head. “Wait a minute, didn’t you say the same thing about sweet potato pie?”
A one-shouldered shrug. “There’s two things I don’t play about.”
“Okay, Dr. Eggman. Let’s move on to the flour.”
He fills the measuring cup with an even layer of flour.
“Just dump a little at a time,” I tell him while holding the hand mixer at low speed.
But my little and his little aren’t the same, because the next second a cloud of flour explodes between us. I squeal as it covers my sweater, my face, and no doubt my hair.
Grant laughs while fanning the air.
“You did that on purpose!” I accuse.
“I promise you I didn’t,” he claims, while his laughter suggests otherwise.
He grabs a dish towel off the counter and steps closer, swiping gently at my cheek.
His hand lingers longer than necessary but he pulls back. “See? All better.”
I turn back to the bowl to finish the dough, willing my heart to calm down.
We shape the dough, add jam to the centers, and this time Grant suggests to let the cookies chill in the freezer so they’ll hold their shape. Another trick his mom taught him.
When we pull the first batch out of the oven, I gasp. “They’re beautiful.”
There are actual, individual cookies—not a blob.
“So, these are the famous Matthews cookies, huh?” Grant says beside me.
I nod with my smile on full display. They look so good. Exactly as they should.
“Yeah. Ivy and Dad used to make these every Christmas.”
“Just them? Why not you too?”
“I never had the knack for baking, which I’m sure you’ve picked up by now.
There’s a reason Ms. Thomas looked like she wanted to book a vacation to the Bahamas to be far away from my cookies.
” I giggle remembering her reaction. “Dad and I used to collect snow globes though. There’s this huge Christmas market the town has, and we’d go every year and pick one out together.
It was our little father-daughter tradition. ”
“A Christmas market you say? You taking me this year?”
I roll my eyes. I hadn’t given the market much thought, and now my heart immediately says no. It won’t be the same without Dad.
“I don’t think I’ll have the time. There’s already so much more we have to do around here before everyone gets home. We need it to be—"
“Perfect,” Grant finishes. “As you’ve said.
” He grabs two cookies, heedless of their too-hot temperature, and puts them on a small plate he then sets aside.
“But it is Christmas. You’re spending all this time doing things for everyone else and worrying about what they need to be happy. What about what you need, Eve?”
What I need is to fill the Dad-shaped hole in my chest. I need Ivy, Nia, and Amani here. My heart won’t be full without them.
Yet Grant eyes me, looking like a man ready to provide all of my needs.
“Let’s do a taste test,” I say quickly.
Grant grabs the cookies and tries to shove one in my mouth like a groom feeding his bride. I give him a flat look, grabbing his wrist with one hand and taking the cookie from him with the other. When I bite into it, my eyes roll back.
“Oh, my God,” I say, stuffing the rest into my mouth. Warm, buttery sweetness perfection.
Grant pops his into his mouth and begins nodding while pointing at the rest of the batch. “Oh yeah. You did this.”
“We did it,” I correct him. Because without his help, I would have been battling dough blobs.
“I guess Ms. Thomas will be happy she stayed home after all,” I say, smiling up at him.
Grant’s eyes rake me over, laughter lighting them. “You still have flour on your cheek.”
“What? Please don’t tell me I’ve been standing here talking to you this whole time looking a mess.” I swipe at my face. “Did I get it?”
“Not even close. Here, let me.”
He reaches up to brush my cheek, the pad of his thumb both warm and a little rough. The smell of cookies clings to his skin, sweet like the smile he aims down at me.
After three strokes I’m sure he’s got the flour off, but this time his hand doesn’t move away. Neither do his eyes. They’re intense and sure, and as the air between us thickens all I can think is that this man keeps surprising me.
He’s knowledgeable, helpful, funny. Attractive. Too attractive.
His eyes dip to my mouth and before I can stop myself, I wet my lips. His jaw sets with quiet determination as he leans in, and even though I should step back, I tilt my head up.
As the space between us narrows, his hand moves to cup my face. Our breaths mingle, mouths centimeters apart.
Ring!
Back to life. Back to reality.
“Ivy’s calling,” I say breathless, immediately recognizing the ringtone.
“Give me a break,” Grant utters quietly enough for me to act like I don’t hear.
My pulse races and my knees wobble like Bambi on ice as I scramble to the table where I see Ivy wants to video chat.
The phone doesn’t want to stay in my jittery hands as I fumble to pick it up, but I manage to get a solid grip and swipe to answer as I bolt from the kitchen.
Away from Grant and what could have been a kiss I’m not sure I’d recover from.