Page 5 of Sugar Dusted Dad Bod

Three

Cady

Okay, so I’ve dreamed about Jasper coming to my apartment late at night a gazillion times, but in those dreams, I’ve always cleaned the place up. There are no dirty mugs on the kitchen counter top, no stacks of unread mail. As we climb the eight flights of stairs to my door, Jasper huffing and puffing but carrying the tree like a champ, all I can think about is the fact that I pulled all the books off my bookshelf earlier today to rearrange them by the color of their spines, then got bored and abandoned the project halfway.

Sure enough, as my front door swings open, the first thing I notice is those stacks of unshelved books and a pile of clean laundry left on the sofa. Why am I such a slob?

“‘Scuse me,” Jasper mutters, and I jump, then hurry out of his way. My boss fumbles the tree awkwardly through the doorway, showering my welcome mat in dropped needles, then sets it down in its pot on my living room floor.

“Shit,” Jasper says when he sees the needles. He scrubs his face, still breathing hard from the long walk and climb carrying my tree. “Sorry about the mess.”

“It’s okay!” Tugging on Jasper’s sleeve, I draw him fully into the apartment, then push the door closed behind him. “Please don’t worry about that. I can vacuum them up in the morning. You brought me a wholetree.”

My boss nods slowly, looking first to the tree still bound up in its netting, then around my cramped living room. There’s barely any room for both our bodies and the tree, along with the sofa, TV and bookcase. The bedroom and kitchen are even smaller, but I don’t point out that fact. The city is expensive, and I’m lucky to afford even this hidey-hole.

“Cute,” Jasper says, nodding to the cross stitch projects I’ve hung on the wall, still in their embroidery hoops. They’re all pictures of baked goods, all done at a clumsy beginner level: one of a croissant, one of an iced Chelsea bun, one of a pile of macarons.

“Oh my god.” The world’s most predictable blush climbs up my cheeks. “Don’t look at those.”

“Too late.” Jasper sounds way too pleased as he steps carefully between the furniture to examine my cross stitch more closely. Have I ever been this embarrassed in my whole life? Maybe not. “Has anyone ever told you you’re fucking adorable, Cady?”

Well, now I’m blushing hard for a whole new reason. And it occurs to both of us at the same time, I can tell: we’re alone in my apartment. It’s late at night. My bedroom is only a few steps away.

I shiver.

Could Jasper ever like me like that? I meanreallylike me like that, beyond silly flirting? Would he want to date someone wholeaves her books in messy piles and who spends each Christmas day alone?

Still in my coat, I hurry to the kitchen to fetch some scissors, trying desperately not to let my hopes get carried away. Jasper is a good boss and a good man—that’s all.

I’m probably not his type, anyway. He’s big and burly and older and accomplished, with tattoo inked all down one arm in a sleeve. Meanwhile, I’m a weenie every winter when I get my flu shot, and I get blown sideways by harsh winds. We’re very different.

“I’ll do that,” Jasper says when I get back to the tree, snip a random piece of netting, and leap back when a branch springs free. “Pass me those scissors.”

I should probably insist on doing this part myself. Jasper paid for my tree, after all, and he carried it all the way along those city blocks and up eight flights of stairs. Now that we’re in my apartment, I should be more helpful—except it’s so freaking nice to have someone taking care of business for a change.

I hand the scissors over, trying not to react when our fingers brush. Jasper glances at me but doesn’t say anything, and then I’m backing up to perch on the sofa arm and watch him work.

Snip. Snip.

It’s usually me against the world. Me handling everything. Booking appointments, paying bills, shopping for groceries, fixing small problems in the apartment, just generally slogging through the swamps of adult life—it’s all me, all alone.

At the bakery, too—we’re a team, and I don’t leave any slack for Jasper to pick up. I’m a good assistant baker, damn it.

Snip. Snip.

Branches burst loose, slapping against Jasper’s barrel chest. He’s still in his coat too, his cheeks pink above his beard from the long, heavy walk and the frosty wind outside. Beneath ourlayers, Jasper and I are both wearing matching white Sugar Dusted baker’s tunics.

It’s so incredibly lame of me, but the knowledge that our clothes make us a matching pair gives me a happy warm glow inside.

“You got decorations?” Jasper asks. His gruff voice seems even deeper than usual.

“Um.” I fiddle with the hem of my coat, trying to wrack my brain and remember. “Maybe in the closet? Definitely somewhere.” My body feels ancient as I force myself to stand up and shuffle through to the bedroom, like those few minutes leaning on the sofa aged me by fifty years. All these late shifts are getting to me.

It must be even worse for Jasper; he basically works double shifts all December. Are his muscles sore? Does anyone ever take care ofhim?

I would. I so would.

Inside my bedroom, the closet door swings open with a creak. It’s a tiny space, but even then my clothes don’t fill it. Beneath the dangling sleeves and dress hems, a cardboard box of tinsel and baubles and other holiday decorations is wedged beneath a pair of old boots.

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