Page 10 of Sugar Dusted Dad Bod

Cady makes an incoherent noise, flapping her free hand like that’s an answer.

“Cady. Try again.”

She sighs, then peeks open one eye.

I walk over, then crouch so I’m at her eye-level. My knees crack like an old man’s, but she’s nice enough not to point it out.

This close, and now that I’m past the shock of the whiskey, I can smellherbeneath the alcohol fumes. Her soap and coconutsugar scent; the sweetness of her laundry powder. It’s always good enough to make my stomach growl.

Cady rolls her one open eye.

“I was being a baby,” she says, gritting out the words like she’s annoyed to have to spell out the obvious. The water quivers in the glass, still pressed against her forehead. Is she feverish? “You were so grossed out by the mistletoe, and it hurt my feelings. So I did the opposite of the mature adult thing and drowned my sorrows in cheap whiskey. It’s no excuse for turning up to work like this, though. I really am sorry.”

I stare at my assistant, frozen in my crouch. Grossed out? Grossed out by the mistletoe? Is that really what she thinks?

“What,” I say stupidly.

Cady huffs and sets the glass of water down on the counter. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Let’s get back to work.”

She moves to get up, but I grab a handful of my own coat and tug her back down. Small and slender as she is, Cady’s always easy to move around, but when she’s hungover like this, she’s like a reed in the wind. She plops back down into the chair with a soft sound of surprise.

“Wait, wait. Hang on a second. We need to clear something up.”

If possible, Cady turns even grayer. “Please don’t say it,” she whispers, but no. She needs to hear this. She’s got this all backward.

“I wasn’t grossed out.”

Cady opens her mouth to argue—then blinks. “You weren’t?”

“No. I didn’t thinkyou’dwant to… you know. Kiss me.” I wave a hand up and down my body, huge and hunkered over and straining against my tunic as it is, and my chest warms when Cady splutters in outrage.

“Of course I would! What are you talking about? Jasper!”

She would?Of courseshe would?

I split into the widest, goofiest grin of my life, and after a split second, Cady laughs and smiles back. Her heels kick beneath the chair.

“Okay,” I say, pushing against my thighs to stand up, because I’m suddenly crackling with excess energy, and I need to burn it off by baking some pies. “That’s sorted, then. Back to work. You drink that water.”

Can’t get carried away by this. Can’t read too much into Cady’s words.

So she wouldn’t mind kissing me once, as part of a mistletoe tradition. That’s good, that’s the best news I’ve received in a long time, and that alone is shocking enough—but that doesn’t mean Cady wants justanykiss from me, any time, any place. That doesn’t mean she wants more.

I’m a man of big appetites, but I can’t get greedy. Not where Cady is concerned.

I’d rather have one mistletoe kiss per year and count my blessings than chase her away by asking for more.

Five

Cady

It’s been three days since Jasper set me straight about the mistletoe, and we’re almost back to normal. Almost. Each evening when I turn up for the late shift, Jasper says hello and smiles at me, his hands dusted with flour as they work a mound of bread dough. I smile back, suddenly shy.

Then we chat all through the late shift, weaving easily around each other as though we’re in a choreographed dance, never stepping on toes or barging shoulders. The kitchen is warm and bright, and the air tastes like powdered sugar.

We laugh, we smile. We steal glances at each other, saying nothing as the radio throbs out another holiday tune. The nerves fizz in my tummy, until I’m queasy with how badly I want my boss.

And… that’s it. Three nights of working together in a single room, three nights of unacknowledged tension simmering between us, and not a peep. At this rate, I’ll be gray by Christmas.

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