Chapter 19 Gingerbread And Goodnight Kisses
Gingerbread And Goodnight Kisses
~LUCA~
Levi burned scones. Commercial scones. For a paying client. Because apparently leaving him alone with an oven is like giving a toddler a flamethrower and hoping for the best.
The October evening bites with teeth that promise November's coming, whether we're ready or not.
I balance the firewood against my hip, the basket of homemade gingerbread in my other hand, and knock on Hazel's door with my elbow because my brother is an idiot who costs us money and reputation in equal measure.
The door opens, and she's there—hair piled in what she probably calls a bun but looks more like a bird's nest that got ambitious, wearing an oversized sweater that's slipping off one shoulder, revealing skin that makes my brain short-circuit for half a second.
Focus, Maddox. You're here for business. Apology business. Not to stare at the curve of her shoulder like some Victorian pervert.
"Luca?" Her hazel eyes widen, taking in the firewood, the basket. "What—"
"Levi burned your client's scones," I say without preamble. "Two dozen. For the Henderson wedding shower. That's tomorrow."
Her face cycles through several expressions—horror, resignation, murderous intent—before landing on exhausted acceptance.
"Of course he did."
"He was trying to 'help.'" I make air quotes with the basket, which is awkward but necessary. "Apparently, helping means setting the timer for minutes instead of hours."
"How do you set a timer for—never mind. I don't want to know."
"I brought replacements." I lift the basket. "Gingerbread. My recipe. And firewood, because your heating bill must be astronomical with that window."
She blinks. "What window?"
"The one that's been leaking cold air since probably last winter. Northwest corner of your living room. The caulking's failed and the frame's warped."
"How did you—"
"I notice things." I shift the firewood. "Can I come in? This is getting heavy, and I'd rather not drop it on your feet. You're already clumsy enough without broken toes."
"I'm not clumsy," she protests, stepping aside. "I'm gravitationally challenged."
"That's literally the same thing."
"It sounds better."
"It sounds like something Levi would say."
"Take that back immediately."
I set the firewood by her tiny fireplace—which probably hasn't been used since the building was constructed—and carry the gingerbread to her kitchen.
Her apartment smells like vanilla and cinnamon and that underneath note of her that makes my hindbrain purr like Muffin when she gets the good treats.
Speaking of the demon cat, she appears from nowhere, winding around my legs with suspicious affection.
"She likes you," Hazel observes. "She doesn't like anyone."
"She tolerates me," I correct, scratching behind Muffin's ears. "There's a difference."
"The difference is semantic."
"The difference is I bring her salmon treats when you're not looking."
"Bribery!"
"Strategic relationship building."
She laughs, and the sound fills the small apartment better than any music. "Tea?"
"After I fix your window. November's approaching. You'll freeze."
"I have blankets."
"You have denial. There's a difference."
"Now who's being semantic?"
I pull out my phone, already typing a list. "I need weatherstripping, caulk, and probably new glazing. Is your hardware store nearby still open?"
"Until seven, but you don't have to—"
"Yes, I do." I meet her eyes, making sure she understands. "Pack takes care of pack."
Her cheeks pink at the word pack, and she busies herself with something on the counter. "We just decided that yesterday."
"Doesn't matter if it was yesterday or years ago. Pack is pack."
The trip to the hardware store takes twelve minutes.
Mr. Chen tries to give me the supplies for free when he hears they're for Hazel.
I pay anyway because I'm not Levi—I understand economics.
By the time I get back, she's set out tea and cookies, and the apartment glows with warm lamplight that makes everything soft and golden.
The window is worse than I thought. Not just failed caulking but actual rot in the frame, probably water damage from years of neglect.
"Your landlord should be fixing this," I mutter, prying out old glazing.
"My landlord is Mrs. Patterson's son, who lives in Florida and considers maintenance a suggestion."
"Then he's an idiot."
"He's cheap."
"Same thing."
I work in focused silence, aware of her watching from the couch. The October wind tests my repairs as I go, trying to find weaknesses. But I'm thorough—always have been. If something's worth doing, it's worth doing right the first time.
"You're different when you work," she observes.
"Different how?"
"Intense. Focused. Like the rest of the world stops existing."
"It does." I smooth new caulk with practiced efficiency. "When I'm fixing something, that's all there is. The problem and the solution."
"Must be nice. Having things be that simple."
"Things are never simple. I just pretend they are until they cooperate."
She laughs again, softer this time. "Is that what you're doing with me? Pretending I'm simple until I cooperate?"
I turn to look at her, really look. She's curled on her couch in a way that should be casual but isn't, tension in her shoulders, fingers twisted in her sweater.
"You're not a problem to solve, Hazel."
"Then what am I?"
"Complicated. Complex. Worth the effort."
The words hang between us, heavier than they should be. She looks away first, and I return to the window, giving us both space to breathe.
When I finish, the seal is perfect. No more cold air, no more drafts. One less thing trying to break her down.
"Your tea's cold," she says, holding up my mug.
"I like it cold."
"Liar. You like it exactly one degree below scalding."
I stare at her. "How do you know that?"
"I pay attention too."
She makes fresh tea—some fancy blend that probably costs more than it should, but tastes like autumn decided to become a beverage. I sink into her couch, which is exactly as uncomfortable as it looks, but somehow perfect because she chose it.
Muffin immediately claims my lap, purring with the intensity of a small engine.
"Traitor," Hazel mutters at the cat.
"She knows quality when she sees it."
"She knows who has salmon treats."
"Strategic relationship building is a valid form of affection."
She curls up on the opposite end of the couch, chamomile steam rising from her mug. "This helps with anxiety," she says quietly. "The chamomile. Supposed to be calming."
"Is it working?"
"Not really."
"What would help?"
She shrugs, but I see the answer in the way she keeps glancing at the middle cushion between us, the careful distance she's maintaining.
"Come here," I say, shifting to make room. "Unless I'm the one making you anxious."
"You don't make me anxious."
"Then why are you death-gripping that mug?"
She looks down at her white knuckles, seems surprised.
"Habit?"
"Bad habit. Come here."
She scoots closer, inch by inch, like she's approaching a wild animal.
Which maybe she is—I've been told I'm about as domesticated as a feral barn cat.
Finally, she's pressed against my side, and I drape my arm along the back of the couch, not quite touching but close enough that she could lean in if she wanted.
She wants. I can smell it in the way her scent shifts—vanilla warming, cinnamon going deeper. But she's careful, controlled, still learning how to want things safely.
We sit in comfortable silence, drinking tea, Muffin purring between us like some kind of furry chaperone. The apartment fills with the scent of gingerbread and dark roast from me, chamomile and vanilla from her, creating something that makes my chest tight with wanting.
This. This is what home smells like.
Eventually, her head drops to my shoulder. Her breathing evens out, and I realize she's fallen asleep.
Just... trusts me enough to fall asleep on me, like I'm safe, like I'm hers.
I play with her hair without thinking, the strands silk between my fingers. She makes a soft sound, burrows closer, and my heart does something complicated that probably requires medical attention.
The fairy lights she's strung everywhere twinkle in the growing darkness. Outside, October continues its slow death into winter. Inside, everything is warm and perfect and terrifying because I want this so much it physically hurts.
Her phone rings, shrill in the silence. She jerks awake, blinking confused in the dim light.
"How long was I—the sun's gone."
"About an hour."
"Oh god, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to use you as a pillow."
"I'm an excellent pillow. Ask Muffin."
The cat in question stretches, yawns, and goes back to purring.
Hazel checks her phone, makes a face. "Mrs. Henderson wants to confirm the gingerbread will be ready."
"Tell her it's handled."
"You can't just make gingerbread for all my clients when Levi destroys things."
"Watch me."
She shakes her head but she's smiling.
"Have you been sleeping well?"
"I asked you first. Earlier. By implication."
She looks away.
"Not really. The last few days..."
"What's wrong?"
"It's stupid."
"Nothing you feel is stupid."
She pulls her knees up, making herself smaller.
"I'm scared. Of Korrin. Of him just... showing up. I don't know any self-defence, I can't—if he comes here—"
"He won't."
"You can't know that."
"I can make it very unlikely." I set down my mug, turn to face her properly. "What would make you feel safe? Right now, today, what do you need?"
"Security system," she says immediately. "Cameras. An alarm. Something so I know if—"
"Done. I'll install them tomorrow."
"Luca—"
"What else?"
She bites her lip. "This is going to sound needy."
"Good. Be needy. What else?"
"Would you—one of you—stay? Just until we know he's really gone? But that's crazy, you all have lives and homes and—"
"We'll stay."
"You can't just—"
"All three of us. We'll rotate if you want, or..." I look around the small apartment. "That couch pulls out?"
"Into the world's most uncomfortable bed."
"We've slept on worse. Levi once slept in a horse stall for a week because he was convinced Buttercup was depressed."
"Was she?"
"No, she was pregnant. He's an idiot."
She laughs, tension easing from her shoulders. "You'd really stay?"
"Until you feel safe. longer if you want. This place is nice."
"This place is tiny."
"This place is you. That makes it perfect."
There's that pink in her cheeks again, and I want to trace it with my fingers, see if it's as warm as it looks.
"Do you want to stay for dinner?" she asks.
"Can't. Have to help Levi with the horses. We're transferring them to the Watson ranch for winter. Annual partnership deal."
"Oh." She looks disappointed, which does things to my chest.
"But tomorrow, after I install your security system."
"Deal."
She walks me to the door, and we stand there in that awkward space between goodbye and something more. Her eyes keep dropping to my mouth. My hands itch to touch her face.
Kiss her, you idiot.
But then my phone rings. Levi's ringtone, because of course it is.
"I swear they're all cockblockers," I mutter, which makes her giggle.
"Goodnight, Luca."
"Goodnight."
I make it three steps before turning back. Knock once. She opens immediately, like she was still standing there.
"Did you forget—"
I cup her cheek, gentle but firm, and kiss her.
She makes a soft sound of surprise, then melts into me, her hands coming up to grip my shirt. She tastes like chamomile and gingerbread, sweet and spicy and perfect. Her mouth is soft, warm, and when she kisses me back it's like coming home after a long journey I didn't know I was on.
I keep it gentle, careful, but there's heat underneath, promise of more when she's ready, when she asks for it.
When I pull back, her eyes are glazed, lips parted, cheeks flushed.
"I'm not the type to be cockblocked," I tell her. "Except by you."
I wink—actually wink, like I'm Levi or something—and head downstairs before I do something stupid like carry her to her bedroom and show her exactly how not-simple she is.
I'm almost to my truck when I hear her whisper, probably thinking I can't hear:
"Luca's definitely the smooth one."
She touches her lips, standing in her doorway backlit by fairy lights, and I have to grip my keys hard enough to hurt to keep from going back up there.
Smooth. She thinks I'm smooth.
If only she knew I've been practicing that kiss in my head for weeks, that I have a spreadsheet of her favorite things, that I think about her so much it's affecting my ability to function.
But maybe that's okay. Maybe being smooth is just another form of strategic relationship building.
Or maybe you're just completely gone for her, Maddox.
Yeah. That too.
Definitely that too.