Sugar Dusted Dad Bod (Dad Bod Christmas)

1. Cady

One

Cady

W hen I was a kid, my favorite holiday tradition was making gingerbread men with my grandma and icing them with little scarves and mittens. We’d stick on tiny chocolate button eyes, and some of them we’d give a white Santa beard. We’d line them up on trays like a delicious little army.

My gingerbread men were always lumpy and misshapen, with wonky eyes and scraggly beards. Grandma’s oven was kinda temperamental too, and they always wound up with at least one limb burned.

If you saw those childhood creations, you’d never guess that little girl would one day work in the best bakery in this city. You’d never guess that she’d amount to much of anything at all, especially with the way she kept sneaking to the sink to lick the bowl. But hey—miracles happen.

It sure feels like a miracle, too. Every time I step through the Sugar Dusted Bakery back door, letting myself into the huge, gleaming kitchen, my heart sings. The air is warm and sweet, laced with the scent of baking treats, and at this time of year, snowflakes swirl past the dark, half-fogged windows.

The radio sits on top of a huge refrigerator, crooning out a Christmas carol. Out in the store, the customers are a loud buzz that floats through the wall.

But here in the kitchen, it’s just me and Jasper. Me, and the boss I’ve been crushing on since day one.

He glances over when I step inside tonight, smiling a crooked smile that shifts his dark beard. His arm muscles flex and bunch as he kneads bread dough at the large kitchen island, the scrubbed surface dusted with flour.

Okay, here’s what you need to know about Jasper O’Reilly: he’s a big man. Six foot something, and built like a linebacker. All packed with muscle beneath that baker’s tunic, then covered in a layer of padding that makes my lower belly tingle.

Every time I see my boss, a question floats across my mind: what would it be like to have that big, masculine bulk pressing me down into a mattress? That’s why I blush crimson when I first see him each day.

Today is no different. “Hey, boss,” I call out, flushing bright red as I wrestle my coat and scarf off and hang them on a wall hook by the door. I’m in a Sugar Dusted baker’s tunic too, with the bakery logo embroidered on my chest. Is it lame that my work tunics are some of my favorite pieces of clothing?

Whenever I slide one of these tunics on, I feel a thousand percent more settled. More sure of my place in the world. I feel like a success at last, like someone my Grandma could have been proud of, and more than that…

When I put my work tunic on, that means I’ll see Jasper soon. So I’m like one of Pavlov’s dogs, trained to get all blushy and breathless with excitement at even the sight of the Sugar Dusted logo.

“Hey, Cady.” Jasper kneads the dough steadily, masterfully stretching and knuckling it against the tabletop, and lord, I need to look away or I’ll start thinking thoughts.

I’m on the late shift tonight. That means the store will close up for the day soon, with the store manager Inge heading home to her husband and kids, and then Jasper and I will be alone in the bakery, working until late.

The holiday rush is always my favorite time of year. There’s something about staying here late at night, watching snowflakes dance past the darkened windows as we bake together and chat comfortably, that makes everything feel… magical.

“You’re on cupcakes.” Jasper nods to the papers we keep tacked to the front of the refrigerator, the ones that keep track of all the dozens of orders coming in and out. As each order goes successfully out of the door, tucked securely in gift-wrapped boxes, it’s highlighted in neon pink to show it’s done and sugar-dusted.

We’re about one-third of the way down this sheet of paper, so it’s gonna be a busy shift. It’s alright for me, though—Jasper doesn’t ask me to work more hours over Christmas, just to come in later so we can keep the kitchen working longer. He’s the one who’s here from dawn until late each night, for weeks and weeks on end, until dark shadows hang beneath his eyes and he can barely stand upright to bake.

That’s the cost of being the best baker in the city, I guess. Jasper O’Reilly’s bakes are the hot ticket.

I’m happy that Jasper’s a big success. He deserves all the accolades, that’s for sure.

But jeez, I wish he’d go easier on himself.

“Brought you something,” I say, keeping my voice light and casual. I dig in my satchel where I’ve hung it on the hook, then wave my gifts at my boss before setting them on the side.

Jasper pauses in his kneading and cranes his neck to see what I’ve placed for him on the counter top. “A bottle of spring water and a banana,” he says slowly, like he’s not sure if he can trust his tired eyes.

“Yep.” Sure, those things aren’t on anyone’s wish list for Santa, but trust me, they’re exactly what Jasper O’Reilly needs midway through a long, hard shift. “Make sure you eat and drink those before you start your next order.”

Jasper snorts, and shakes his head down at his dough. Maybe a meaner boss would take offense at being ordered around by his employee—and especially one who’s at least a decade younger.

Not Jasper, though. “Yes, ma’am,” he says.

My chest glows warm as I march to the sink to wash up. It may be tragic, but at this time of year when the bakery gets so busy, all I want to do is help my sweet, burly boss relax. I want to bring him nutritious food and sit on his lap and feed it to him; I want to rub his broad shoulders and massage the strain away.

There are other things I’d like to do for him too, but I can’t admit to those. You’re not supposed to fantasize about dropping to your knees in the kitchen for your older boss. For starters, it’s a breach of the food hygiene codes.

So instead, I settle for bringing Jasper spring water and a nutritious snack each shift. And my other secret wishes, the things I wish I could do to help him feel good… I keep those to myself.

* * *

“You got a tree this year?” Jasper peels his banana carefully, then chomps half of it in one big bite, chewing steadily as he waits for an answer.

I’m sitting opposite him in the break room, my knee jiggling beneath the small table like it always does when we’re in here alone. A mug of coffee steams on the table in front of me, despite Jasper fretting that I’d never get to sleep tonight.

I will, he needn’t worry about that. After a whole late shift in the bakery, stirring and shifting and icing and kneading, then the slog home through the snow, I will definitely crash into my bed and fall asleep in a flash.

But I do like Jasper fretting. It’s like he really cares—like he thinks of me outside of the bakery. Thoughts like that make my knee jiggle worse than ever.

“Nope.” My thumbnail digs into a groove in the table. “No tree. I live up, like, eight flights of stairs, and I’m five foot three.”

Jasper frowns, looking way too troubled for a man with a mouth full of banana. He swallows, his thick neck shifting, then says: “You need some help carrying a tree upstairs? I could come over.”

My neck goes hot. I don’t know why, but I always burn up whenever people realize that I spend the holidays home alone; when it becomes clear that I’m a lonely weirdo with barely any friends. I’ve got no family in this city; no cousins or siblings I could call for help. And sure, I’ve gotten to know a few nice people at the murder mystery book club I go to when I’m not on shift, but I don’t know them well enough to go asking favors. They’re not those kinds of friends.

I’m on my own. And I’m used to that fact—so why do I hate when other people realize it? Especially Jasper.

Maybe because I’ve fantasized about him coming to my tiny little apartment about a gazillion times, but never like this. Never out of pity.

“It’s cool.” I snatch up my coffee and take a scalding gulp, wincing as I place the mug down again. My voice is hoarse when I keep talking. “I don’t need a tree anyways. Holiday cheer is overrated.”

Jasper sits back in his seat, watching me steadily. With his dark beard and barrel chest and those piercing blue eyes, he has the air of a man who is not buying a single ounce of my bullshit. It’s way too majestic for someone holding half a banana.

“You love Christmas, Cady.”

I scoff, knee jiggling so hard it’s nearly knocking the table. “I do not. Who likes Christmas these days? Snowmen and string lights and mince pies. Bleh. So lame.”

“Hm.” Jasper grunts, nodding slowly as he weighs up my lie. He finishes the banana off in one more big bite, then leans back to drop the peel in the trash can in the corner. This break room is so small, and the boss is so large, that he can probably reach every wall from where he’s sitting.

He’s quiet, chewing, and for a second I think I’ve gotten away with it. Then Jasper swallows and says, “So if I bought a tree and carried it up to your apartment, you’d send me away?”

My mouth goes so, so dry.

And I should be cool about this, should make another joke, but all I can do is be painfully, tragically honest: “I’d never send you away, boss.”

Seriously. If this man came to my apartment out of work hours? If I got to spend that bonus time with him outside of the bakery? If he showed he cared for me like that? Are you kidding me?

I’d never send Jasper O’Reilly away, not even if he turned up at my door with an armful of slimy old leaves. I’d be like, sure! Drop ‘em wherever!

Jasper blinks, like my answer has taken him by surprise. He doesn’t look weirded out, though. If anything, he looks… pleased.

“Maybe I will, then,” he says.

“Maybe you should.”

Gah! My fingers are white-knuckled in my lap, knotted together where the boss can’t see them.

Can’t get my hopes up, though. This is the busiest time of year for Jasper, and he barely has time to go home to shower and sleep between shifts. He’s not gonna lose another hour of precious free time to schlep a Christmas tree up eight flights of stairs to my poky little apartment.

It’s sweet of him to suggest, though. Even as a hypothetical idea, it warms my insides.

And that’s why I’m head over heels for my boss.