Page 14 of ICED
I open the door with the chain still on. “Yes?”
“Oh! Sorry, love,” she says, peering through the gap. “This got delivered to ours by mistake. Maya Dawson?”
I nod, fumbling the chain off. “Yes, thank you.”
“No trouble.” She hands me the box. “Looks like a baking supply delivery.”
Of course it is. I finally managed to order proper piping bags and food dye, something Lila’s been bouncing about for days.
“Thanks again.”
“Anytime, love. You and your little one settling in alright?”
I smile, guarded. “Yes, thank you.”
She doesn’t linger. Just a kind smile and a wave before heading down the hall.
I shut the door, lock it, and check the bolt. Twice. Then go back to the living room where Lila is now building a tea party for Paddington using a half-eaten apple and a hair bobble.
“Was it the post lady?” she asks, glancing up.
“Yes.” I hold up the parcel. “Look what came.”
Her eyes light up. “Is that the colours?!”
“It is indeed, Miss Sprinkle Town. We’ll try them after lunch, alright?”
“Deal!” she says, bouncing up and down.
I sit back beside her and pull the blanket over both of us. She leans her head on my shoulder, and I finally let myself breathe again.
This is the good part. This is what we’re building toward. Every careful step away from the past, every moment I refuse to be ruled by fear. It’s for this. For safety. For normal. For food dye and Sunday tea and silly cups.
For a little girl who believes bears can bake and mums can fix everything.
Even when I’m not so sure.
We stay like that for a long while, the telly murmuring in the background, the air heavy with the scent of chamomileand toast. Lila hums under her breath, one hand tangled in mine, the other petting Paddington like he’s real.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, I think about the man who smells like sugar. Who doesn’t flinch when Lila smears flour on his jeans. Who tells her, dead serious, that only special bears know how to make puff pastry from scratch.
And who, for reasons I can’t quite explain, makes me laugh without it feeling like a trap.
I shake it off.
We’ve got food dye to test. A Sprinkle Town bakery to plan. And absolutely no time for gentle-eyed hockey giants with arms like tree trunks and a laminated dough obsession.
Even if he does fold croissants like he’s holding something sacred.
CHAPTER SEVEN
JACKO
The scent of rubber and ice hits the second I step into the rink. Comforting, in a gross sort of way. Like coming home to your nan’s musty old flat, it’s familiar, if slightly rank.
“Oi, Jacko,” Dylan calls across the locker room, a towel slung around his neck like he’s just done something heroic instead of stretching for six minutes and calling it physio. “Back from your bake-cation, are you?”
Murphy grins as he laces up, looking like he’s got a snarky remark queued and ready. “Must’ve burned a few batches, if they finally let you out.”
