Sugar Dusted Dad Bod (Dad Bod Christmas)

3. Cady

Three

Cady

O kay, so I’ve dreamed about Jasper coming to my apartment late at night a gazillion times, but in those dreams, I’ve always cleaned the place up. There are no dirty mugs on the kitchen counter top, no stacks of unread mail. As we climb the eight flights of stairs to my door, Jasper huffing and puffing but carrying the tree like a champ, all I can think about is the fact that I pulled all the books off my bookshelf earlier today to rearrange them by the color of their spines, then got bored and abandoned the project halfway.

Sure enough, as my front door swings open, the first thing I notice is those stacks of unshelved books and a pile of clean laundry left on the sofa. Why am I such a slob?

“‘Scuse me,” Jasper mutters, and I jump, then hurry out of his way. My boss fumbles the tree awkwardly through the doorway, showering my welcome mat in dropped needles, then sets it down in its pot on my living room floor.

“Shit,” Jasper says when he sees the needles. He scrubs his face, still breathing hard from the long walk and climb carrying my tree. “Sorry about the mess.”

“It’s okay!” Tugging on Jasper’s sleeve, I draw him fully into the apartment, then push the door closed behind him. “Please don’t worry about that. I can vacuum them up in the morning. You brought me a whole tree. ”

My boss nods slowly, looking first to the tree still bound up in its netting, then around my cramped living room. There’s barely any room for both our bodies and the tree, along with the sofa, TV and bookcase. The bedroom and kitchen are even smaller, but I don’t point out that fact. The city is expensive, and I’m lucky to afford even this hidey-hole.

“Cute,” Jasper says, nodding to the cross stitch projects I’ve hung on the wall, still in their embroidery hoops. They’re all pictures of baked goods, all done at a clumsy beginner level: one of a croissant, one of an iced Chelsea bun, one of a pile of macarons.

“Oh my god.” The world’s most predictable blush climbs up my cheeks. “Don’t look at those.”

“Too late.” Jasper sounds way too pleased as he steps carefully between the furniture to examine my cross stitch more closely. Have I ever been this embarrassed in my whole life? Maybe not. “Has anyone ever told you you’re fucking adorable, Cady?”

Well, now I’m blushing hard for a whole new reason. And it occurs to both of us at the same time, I can tell: we’re alone in my apartment. It’s late at night. My bedroom is only a few steps away.

I shiver.

Could Jasper ever like me like that? I mean really like me like that, beyond silly flirting? Would he want to date someone who leaves her books in messy piles and who spends each Christmas day alone?

Still in my coat, I hurry to the kitchen to fetch some scissors, trying desperately not to let my hopes get carried away. Jasper is a good boss and a good man—that’s all.

I’m probably not his type, anyway. He’s big and burly and older and accomplished, with tattoo inked all down one arm in a sleeve. Meanwhile, I’m a weenie every winter when I get my flu shot, and I get blown sideways by harsh winds. We’re very different.

“I’ll do that,” Jasper says when I get back to the tree, snip a random piece of netting, and leap back when a branch springs free. “Pass me those scissors.”

I should probably insist on doing this part myself. Jasper paid for my tree, after all, and he carried it all the way along those city blocks and up eight flights of stairs. Now that we’re in my apartment, I should be more helpful—except it’s so freaking nice to have someone taking care of business for a change.

I hand the scissors over, trying not to react when our fingers brush. Jasper glances at me but doesn’t say anything, and then I’m backing up to perch on the sofa arm and watch him work.

Snip. Snip.

It’s usually me against the world. Me handling everything. Booking appointments, paying bills, shopping for groceries, fixing small problems in the apartment, just generally slogging through the swamps of adult life—it’s all me, all alone.

At the bakery, too—we’re a team, and I don’t leave any slack for Jasper to pick up. I’m a good assistant baker, damn it.

Snip. Snip.

Branches burst loose, slapping against Jasper’s barrel chest. He’s still in his coat too, his cheeks pink above his beard from the long, heavy walk and the frosty wind outside. Beneath our layers, Jasper and I are both wearing matching white Sugar Dusted baker’s tunics.

It’s so incredibly lame of me, but the knowledge that our clothes make us a matching pair gives me a happy warm glow inside.

“You got decorations?” Jasper asks. His gruff voice seems even deeper than usual.

“Um.” I fiddle with the hem of my coat, trying to wrack my brain and remember. “Maybe in the closet? Definitely somewhere.” My body feels ancient as I force myself to stand up and shuffle through to the bedroom, like those few minutes leaning on the sofa aged me by fifty years. All these late shifts are getting to me.

It must be even worse for Jasper; he basically works double shifts all December. Are his muscles sore? Does anyone ever take care of him ?

I would. I so would.

Inside my bedroom, the closet door swings open with a creak. It’s a tiny space, but even then my clothes don’t fill it. Beneath the dangling sleeves and dress hems, a cardboard box of tinsel and baubles and other holiday decorations is wedged beneath a pair of old boots.

Not gonna lie: it smells a little musty. I didn’t bother decorating at all last year, not with us working so late and with no one in my life to come over and see the place.

Back aching, I wrestle the box out, trying not to let myself look over at the bed. It’s made, yes, and the sheets are fresh, but it’s better not to let my brain go there. That’s not what this visit is about, no matter how much I wish it was.

Jasper’s done with the netting when I get back into the living room, and he’s positioning the tree the only place it will fit: in the window, to the side of the sofa. Half blocking the bookcase, but hey—at least it hides my mess.

“Wow.” My cheeks ache as I break into a wide grin, carrying the box of decorations over to Jasper. “It looks so good!”

It really does. The tree is big and burly and strong, just like my boss, with bristly green branches and a pine-fresh scent.

Jasper looks satisfied. He folds his arms and inspects the tree from pot to tip, then nods once.

“Right,” my boss says, turning for the door. “I’d better get gone.”

“Wait!” I blurt, nearly tripping over myself as I try to block his way. “Stay for a while longer. I’ll make us drinks and put on carols while we decorate.”

It’s selfish, I know, to keep him here when he’s so tired, but I need Jasper to stay. Need him around, period. His sturdy presence is addictive, and I get so lonely on these dark winter nights.

Jasper gazes at me for a long moment, turmoil behind his blue eyes, before he looks away and nods.

“Okay. I’ll stay.”

“And I’ll make you the biggest, strongest coffee you’ve ever drunk,” I promise, dropping the box on the sofa with a soft thump.

Jasper booms out a laugh. “You’d better.”

* * *

With a few table lamps casting a warm glow through the living room, carols playing softly from the TV, and two giant mugs of coffee, each with a shot of whiskey… we’re good to go. Coats are shucked and slung over the back of my sofa; boots are kicked off by the door. We’re getting comfy.

It’s so nice having Jasper here. He fills the space—not just literally with his bulk, but in other ways too. My apartment seems cozier, lighter, happier. My boss wraps tinsel around his neck like a feather boa to make me laugh; he lifts me up by the waist so I can put the star on the top of the tree.

That is a moment I’ll never forget in all my life.

Jasper’s big hands gripping my sides, so firm yet gentle. The way he lifts me so easily, like I weigh less than a single sack of flour. The heat of his chest against my back as he waits patiently for me to place the star.

It takes me longer than it should, too, because all I can think about is how easily Jasper could turn me around and wrap my thighs around his waist; how he could hold my ass up in one strong hand and fuck me while standing.

By the time my boss sets me back down on the rug, my legs are jelly and there’s a telltale slickness between my thighs.

God, I want him.

“Looking good,” Jasper says, both hands still on my waist as he regards our decked-out tree. The branches drip with baubles and tinsel; it’s not subtle at all, but somehow that’s better. It looks homemade, exuberant, and cozy. Like a tree in someone’s home instead of a shop window.

Obviously, I can’t speak with Jasper’s hands on me. Can barely breathe, it feels so good. Warm and secure and so big and sexy.

“Cady?”

With effort, I unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “Uh-huh,” I say. “Looks good. Thanks, Jasper.”

His hands let go, and I can breathe again.

Tree decorated, we both crash onto the sofa to drink our coffees and dig through the other decorations.

“What kinda fucked up demon is this?” Jasper asks, holding up an Elf on the Shelf by one ankle. I shriek and bat it back into the box.

“Don’t let it out! I swear it watches me.”

Jasper shudders, then keeps digging through the leftover stuff. “Well, I’m taking that little creep with me when I go tonight. He’s going face down in a city trash can.”

“Thank god.”

The coffees are hot and strong, chasing the sleepiness from earlier away, but the shots of whiskey make everything mellow. Jasper and I laugh easily, teasing each other and reminiscing about funny stuff in the bakery. We chat about stuff we’ve never covered before—personal stuff. Family and childhood and hopes and dreams.

“I’ll tell you a secret.” Jasper rummages around, pulls a rumpled old wreath from the box, then wrinkles his nose and puts it back. “My old man was in the military. A real macho guy, you know? Our family vacations were like practice boot camps. I remember this one year he made us run up and down the beach for so long in the hot sun that my older brother threw up on some kid’s sandcastle.”

I’m frozen cross-legged on the sofa, horrified. “Oh, god. That’s awful.”

Jasper waves a big hand. “That wasn’t the secret. No, the secret is that my folks didn’t want me to be a baker. They cut me off for it. Said it was no job for a real man; said it would make me soft.” He laughs ruefully, patting the curve of his belly. “Guess they weren’t wrong about that. Still, we haven’t spoken in years.”

“Even now?” My heart is pounding uncomfortably hard, thudding against my rib cage. Are Jasper’s parents insane? Why would you ever cut off contact with the best person in the whole world? “Do they know that you’re a super-famous baker that people go on waiting lists to buy from? Do they know about that movie star flying over in her private jet to get a batch of your blueberry muffins?”

“No.” Jasper grins down into the box as he keeps sifting through the decorations inside, but the expression is all wrong. There’s no humor to it. “I’ve never told them that. If I need to impress them to keep them around, what kind of parents are they? Besides, I’m grown now anyway.”

My throat is so tight. I clear it and nod.

“I guess that’s something else we have in common.”

Jasper glances over, piercing me with those blue eyes. “Your folks have cut you off?”

My laugh is flat. “Nothing that dramatic. It’s more that they were never that interested in the first place. They had a kid because that’s what people do, but they really wanted to get on with their own lives. I was an unwelcome distraction.”

Jasper is quiet, his jaw working beneath his beard.

“My Grandma loved me, though.” The box contents blur when I look down. “She was the best.”

Jasper reaches over and cups the back of my neck, his thumb rubbing at my bare skin. “Cady. Ah, hell. Don’t cry, baby.”

Too freaking late. I’m gonna blame the whiskey for this, because even when I sniff and blink a dozen times, the tears keep streaking down my cheeks. I blot them with the sofa throw, laughing weakly as my boss curses and frets beside me.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Jasper mutters. “I started us down this path.”

He starts to pull away, but I clap a hand over his, holding him against my neck. I keep his touch there, soothing me and electrifying my bare skin in equal measure.

“I’m glad you did.” I sniff again and give him a big, watery smile. “This is the closest I’ve felt to anyone in ages.”

Jasper softens then, even as a storm rages behind his blue eyes. “Still shouldn’t have made you cry.”

He turns back to the box. We both do, eager for a distraction, and for a while we laugh at goofy reindeer statues and an old snow globe I bought in a flea market that has those little green aliens from Toy Story in it. My tears dry, and we both relax, melting into the sofa.

Then Jasper pulls something new out of the box. A crumpled sprig of dark leaves and white berries. It takes a beat for us both to realize what we’re looking at, then I draw in a sharp breath while my boss goes rigid beside me.

Mistletoe.

A little dusty and rumpled, but unmistakable.

Mistletoe.

Jasper is a human statue. It’s like his heart has stopped beating. Mine, meanwhile, is racing a mile a minute, pounding fast enough to rattle my ribs.

Mistletoe. This is it. If we’re ever gonna kiss, it’s now.

I wet my lips and turn to my older boss.

But Jasper’s staring at the sprig in his hand with mute horror. His eyes are wide, his mouth turned down, and when he finally jolts back to life and shoves the mistletoe back in the cardboard box, he practically punches a hole through the base.

“Don’t know what that was,” Jasper scrapes out, and he’s such a liar, but I don’t call him out. I’m too stunned, too heartbroken to say anything. “Just some old tinsel.”

“Right,” I whisper. “Old tinsel.”

We’re both in shock as Jasper lurches to his feet, shrugging on his coat and crossing to the door. I follow in a daze, my fingertips and toes going numb as Jasper shoves on his boots without bothering to lace them.

He’s so grossed out by the idea of kissing me that he’s literally fleeing from my apartment. This is my worst nightmare. It’s not just that he doesn’t want me that way—it’s that Jasper is desperate to get away. He can’t bear to be here a minute longer, not even as friends.

“Okay,” my boss says, talking to the wall over my head. “I’ll see you for your shift tomorrow. Thanks for the coffee, Cady.”

I nod, dizzy and miserable. “Thanks for the tree.”

“No problem.”

The door shuts behind him, leaving me with nothing but my ragged breathing and the soft croon of carols. They were comforting before, but now they’re mocking me. Our tree stands proud in the corner, but I can’t look at it right now. Can’t bear to think about how happy I was only an hour ago; how hopeful.

“Okay,” I say to the universe at large. “You win.”

There’s a whiskey bottle in the kitchen calling my name.