Page 10 of Daddy's Christmas Rescue
I was still licking chocolate off my thumb when the sound of the front door opening made me jump, and I froze. The spoon slipped from my hand and hit the counter with a clatter. My stomach dropped straight through the floor.
Biscuit bounded up, tail wagging, running straight for the sound. I couldn’t move. I was still standing there in one of Blake’s shirts. The sleeves covered my hands. The hem nearly reached my thighs.
The boots by the door thumped once, then Blake’s voice: “Smells like a bakery exploded in here.”
I turned around, heart pounding. “I’m sorry!” The words flew out too fast. “I— I was just— I didn’t mean—”
He stopped in the doorway, eyes sweeping the room. The counter was dusted white, a smear of dough streaked across my wrist. The oven light glowed. Biscuit wagged his tail like he’d been helping.
Blake blinked once, then huffed out something that might have been a laugh. “Jesus, Holly. I was gone two hours.”
“I’ll clean it up,” I blurted. “I promise. I’ll make it like it never—”
“Hey.” His voice wasn’t sharp, but it cut through my panic all the same. He stepped closer, hands loose at his sides. “You’re not in trouble.”
I blinked at him. “I’m not?”
“Do I look mad?”
I looked. Really looked. His mouth was set in a straight line, but his eyes weren’t cold. If anything, they looked a little tired and…soft.
“I thought you’d be angry. I used your flour.”
“It’s flour, Holly. Not gold dust.” His tone was dry, but not unkind. “What were you making?”
“Cookies,” I admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Chocolate chip.”
He sniffed the air, then nodded toward the oven. “They smell pretty good. You bake often?”
“No,” I said quickly. Then quieter: “I used to. But I wasn’t supposed to.”
He frowned, the kind of frown that came from wanting to ask questions but knowing not to. “Well, you’re supposed to here. You can bake whatever you want.”
The words hit harder than they should have. My throat felt tight again, but this time it wasn’t fear. It was something gentler. The timer beeped, and I startled so hard Biscuit barked. Blake reached past me, calm and steady, and opened the oven door. The smell of warm sugar and butter filled the room.
He set the tray on the counter. “They look perfect.”
I stared at them, steam curling off the top. “You really think so?”
“Yeah,” he said. “And I don’t say that unless I mean it.”
He grabbed a cookie, broke it in half, wrapped the other in a napkin so I wouldn’t burn my fingers and handed me the bigger piece. I took it with both hands, careful not to drop it. The chocolate was melted, and delicious.
“Don’t burn yourself,” he muttered automatically.
“I won’t.” I blew on it first, small and deliberate, like a child being careful with something precious. He noticed, I think, because his shoulders eased.
The first bite was sweet and soft and almost too much. I swallowed hard, blinked fast. “I forgot how much I love doing this,” I whispered.
“Then don’t forget again.”
Simple words. But they lodged somewhere deep inside me. I smiled without meaning to. Biscuit nudged my leg for a bite, and Blake shook his head. “You feed him one of those, he’ll never eat dog food again.”
I laughed—a real one this time—and it startled me. It sounded lighter than I remembered.
Blake turned away to rinse his hands, and I caught the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth while I sneaked Biscuit a piece of cookie. Of course, Biscuit ruined it by eating it unnecessarily noisily.
Blake didn’t say anything else, but I didn’t need him to.He’d already said the thing that mattered most —I could bake whatever I wanted.
