Page 9 of Daddy's Christmas Rescue
That earned the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth, almost a smile but not quite. “You’re my guest, Holly. Not my cook.”
I ducked my head. “Sorry. I just…thought it’d be polite.”
“Polite’s overrated.” He said it simply, no bite in it, just matter-of-fact. Then, softer, “You don’t owe me anything.”
My throat tightened. I didn’t know what to do with words like that.
He shifted his weight like he was uncomfortable too. “I’ve got a job site to check in on this morning, pay to do before the crew finishes for the holidays in a couple of days, but I can do it here. Shouldn’t be gone long. You’ll be fine here with Biscuit. There’s food, coffee, TV if you want it. I'll lock the door after I go.”
“I’ll be good,” I said quickly. Too quickly.
He gave me a long look—the kind that saw through words. “You don’t have to be good, Holly. Just safe.” The words landed deep, right in the center of me. Safe. I liked the way it sounded in his voice.
He rubbed a hand over Biscuit’s head, then nodded toward me. “You can let him out back when he needs it. He’ll show you how. I’ll be back before noon.”
I wanted to say thank you, but my throat didn’t cooperate. I wanted to say sorry again, too, but that didn’t seem right either. So I just nodded, hands buried in the sleeves of his flannel. He was trusting a stranger he’d just met to stay in his house.
He paused in the doorway. “You’ll be all right?”
I nodded again. “Yes, sir.”
The word slipped out before I could stop it. Sir. Small, instinctive, automatic. My heart stuttered.
If he noticed, he didn’t react. Just tipped his head slightly, that steady look back in his eyes. “Good,” he said finally.
When he was gone, the house went quiet except for Biscuit’s sigh. I sat there a long time, staring at the mug on the nightstand and the sunlight creeping up the wall.
I should’ve felt ashamed. I did, a little. But mostly, I felt warm. No one had ever told me to be safe. I wasn’t sure I knew how to be safe, but maybe this was where I’d start learning.
After the front door closed and the sound of Blake’s truck faded down the road, the house went still. Not the kind of silencethat pressed down on you, but the kind that breathed. The kind you could almost trust.
Biscuit padded back into the kitchen, toenails clicking softly on the wood. I followed. He looked at me, then at the back door, tail swishing once like he already knew what came next.
“All right,” I said quietly. My voice sounded too loud in the empty house. “Let’s get you outside.”
He trotted out into the snow-dusted yard, did his business, and came straight back in. I wiped his paws with the towel hanging near the door and hung it back exactly the way I’d found it. I didn’t know what to do with myself after that. I knew I should…run, but where to? There was nowhere Vincent couldn’t find me.
The kitchen was still warm from breakfast. The oatmeal pot sat keeping warm and I wrinkled my nose. No amount of sugar could make that nasty stuff edible, but I was hungry and popped a couple of slices of bread in the toaster. Everything about Blake’s house was orderly, like he didn’t know how to rest unless the world around him was straightened out.I liked that. It made me feel safe. My parents house had stuff littering every surface. Sometimes I would get into trouble for not tidying up, sometimes I would get shouted at for touching things that weren’t mine. Trouble either way.
My fingers drifted along the edge of the counter. Smooth wood, faintly warm from the morning sun. My hand brushed against a jar of flour, and the smallest spark went through me — the good kind. A quiet hum of wanting.
I used to love baking. When Nana was alive. Before everything. Before “helping” turned into “you’ll just make a mess.” Before I learned that even small joys could get you punished.
I looked toward the door, half expecting Blake to come back in, catch me reaching for the flour, and tell me no. But all I heardwas Biscuit padding around the living room, sighing contentedly as he curled up near the fire.
No one was here to stop me.
My heart thudded a little faster. I opened the cupboard and found sugar, baking soda, vanilla—neat rows, all labeled. Whoever stocked this kitchen didn’t do anything halfway. There was even a jar of chocolate chips.
“Just a few,” I murmured, like I was confessing something.
It felt wrong and wonderful all at once.
The measuring cups clinked softly against the bowl. I tried to be quiet, tried not to make a mess, but soon there was flour on the counter, on my hands, even a little dusting my cheek. Biscuit lifted his head once to check on me, then went back to his nap.I couldn’t stop smiling.
I stirred the dough with a wooden spoon, the scent of butter and sugar rising like something holy. It didn’t matter if the cookies turned out perfect, I just needed to remember what it felt like to make something that didn’t hurt.
When I slid the tray into the oven, my chest felt warm in a way that had nothing to do with the heat.
