Page 80 of Cross Check Christmas
"I crossed my fingers." His grin is pure mischief. "Now stop worrying. I spent years pretending I didn't have feelings for you. Years watching you from across classrooms and hallways, making dumb jokes just to see you roll your eyes at me. I'm not letting three hours and twelve minutes get in our way."
He cups my face in his hands, and suddenly I forget what I was worried about. His touch is warm despite the winter chill.
We walk the short distance to the bakery, and the bell chimes as Hendrix pushes open the door, his hand warm against my lower back. The aroma of fresh bread and cinnamon hits me, but the front counter stands empty.
"Daisy?" I call out. "You in here?"
Hendrix peers around. "Maybe she's not open yet? Though the sign says?—"
A crash echoes from the kitchen, followed by muffled giggles and shushing sounds.
"I should check on Tucker too," Hendrix says, heading for the door. "He wasn't answering his phone yesterday either."
The kitchen door swings open, and out stumbles Tucker and Daisy, both looking like they've been rolling in a flour bin.
Daisy's usually perfect hair is dusted white, and there's a suspicious handprint on Tucker's shirt that matches perfectly with the flour coating Daisy's fingers.
My jaw drops. Daisy's face flames red as she tries to smooth down her hair, only succeeding in adding more flour to it.
Tucker, on the other hand, just winks at Hendrix and comes around the counter with a casual salute—his signature smirk plastered across his flour-dusted face as he heads for the exit. As he passes us, I notice distinct flour handprints on the back of his jeans that definitely weren't from baking.
As Tucker leaves, strutting across the street to his coffee shop, Daisy's cheeks flush crimson beneath the flour coating. She straightens her apron, trying and failing to look professional. "I was just... teaching Tucker how to make croissants."
I catch Hendrix's eye, and we both struggle to keep straight faces. My lips twitch as I peek through the open kitchen window, noticing a suspiciously Tucker-sized clear spot on the flour-covered counter.
"Is that what the kids are calling it these days?" Hendrix mutters under his breath.
I elbow him in the ribs, but can't help the laugh that bubbles up. "We just came by for some bread," I manage to say.
"And to check why you two weren't answering your phone," Hendrix adds innocently.
"I was... busy," Daisy mumbles, avoiding eye contact. "With... croissants."
I hold out my hand palm up to Hendrix, unable to keep the smug grin off my face. "Pay up, Mortimer. I've won the bet."
Hendrix lets out a dramatic sigh and reaches for his wallet. He pulls out a pristine five-dollar bill, making a show of examining it in the light.
"Here.” He snaps it between his fingers with a flourish. “Five dollars."
The look on Daisy's face is priceless—her mouth drops open, and for once, she's completely speechless. Steam practically shoots from her ears as she glares at us. Then her eyes narrow dangerously.
"OUT!" She waves her flour-covered hands at us. "Just... take whatever you want from the racks and go. Both of you!"
Without another word, she spins on her heel and storms back into the kitchen, the door swinging wildly behind her.
I tuck the five dollars into my pocket and grin triumphantly.
“Sourdough or rustic wheat?” I say, wandering over to the racks full of freshly baked bread.
Hendrix picks up a paper bag and a pair of tongs. “Both. And a cinnamon raisin loaf while we’re here.”
I grab a few bear claws and toss them into our paper bag. "These too. It’s the least Daisy could do after that stunt she pulled with Tucker."
"The bet or the..." Hendrix waggles his eyebrows, "croissant-making?"
"Both." I tuck the pastries in beside the bread loaves. “She owes us."
"Us?" Hendrix raises an eyebrow.
