Sugar Dusted Dad Bod (Dad Bod Christmas)

4. Jasper

Four

Jasper

I spend a sleepless night and a robotic day in the bakery feeling like a complete prick. Every minute, every hour, I relive it all: the sprig of mistletoe in my hand, Cady’s intake of breath, the way the room went so quiet and still. My sluggish heartbeat and the cold seeping through my veins as I pictured leaning over to her and Cady flinching away.

In that moment, when we both looked down at the mistletoe, I told myself: There’s no way on this Earth that Cady wants to kiss me. I need to get her out of this. I need to save her from this shit show.

But when I shoved the sprig back in the box, when I finally turned to my assistant baker, she looked… disappointed. Hurt, even.

My heart thumps hard enough to bruise at the thought.

Fuck, if I really did hurt Cady’s feelings last night, I will kick my own ass.

The kitchen is hot and bright, with trays of mince pies turning golden in the ovens. Racks of fresh loaves are out in the store, still warm for their buyers, and I’m grinding through the day’s orders on autopilot. It’s a relief to keep my hands busy.

Outside the window, the sky is dim. Soon, it’ll be dark and starry out there, and Cady will arrive for her shift, and I’ll have to act like a normal human being and not a complete mess.

It was hard enough before, acting normal and trying to be a good boss when I was sickeningly in love with my assistant baker. But now… after last night…

Hey, maybe an asteroid will hit and I won’t have to deal with this. Here’s hoping.

The Sugar Dusted store does good business all day, with a constant stream of chatter floating through the kitchen wall. When the shop manager, Inge, ducks in to wave goodbye for the day, she looks like she’s been fighting off a mob.

“Night, boss.”

I wave a floury hand. “Night.”

Then I’m alone with the ticking clock and the hum of the ovens.

Mince pies out and placed to cool. Flour scattered over the worktop to make shortcrust pastry for some pumpkin pies. My hands move without input from my brain, which is just as well since my brain can only think of one thing.

Cady. Cady. Cady.

Once the sky outside is ink-black and speckled with stars, the bakery back door swings open. Cady steps inside, stamping snow off her boots onto the doormat and unwinding her knitted purple scarf. Snowflakes cling to her auburn braids.

“Hey, boss.”

She won’t look at me. Won’t even glance in my direction as she shrugs off her coat and hangs it on a hook with her tote bag. Cady’s baker’s tunic is clean and pressed.

My gut sinks.

“How’s the tree looking?” My tone is all wrong, all forced and jovial, but I can’t just stand here and feel this gulf between us. Usually, when Cady steps into the bakery and I see her for the first time that day, a knot of tension inside me relaxes. Everything slots into place; everything feels right .

Today, though, as Cady crosses to the sink and scrubs her hands in hot, soapy water, the knot inside me winds tighter. I have messed up. My sweet assistant baker won’t look at me, not even as she replies, addressing her hands instead. Her shoulders are hunched up around her ears.

“Good, thanks. I vacuumed up those needles too. The whole apartment looks way better.”

“Good. That’s good.”

I wait, but there’s nothing else incoming. Normally, Cady chats with me, the conversation flowing as easy as breathing. Today, though, she dries off her hands in silence then walks to the list pinned to the refrigerator, scanning to see the next orders we need to bake.

“Chocolate fudge brownies,” Cady says. “Shall I do those?”

“Sure. And Cady…” I begin, but then I trail off. What the hell can I say?

She shoots me a dead-eyed smile. “It’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

* * *

Everything is not fine. It’s bad enough to feel this awful gulf between us; bad enough to tiptoe around each other in the kitchen, making sure to give each other a wide berth at all times, only speaking in short, polite sentences about today’s orders. Believe me, that alone is enough to make me want to slam my head against the wall.

Then I notice other things. Like Cady’s shaky hands, and the gray tinge to her skin, and the dark shadows under her eyes. The way she keeps gripping the edge of the counter for balance and sucking in slow, steady breaths, and the quiet groan she lets slip when I open the oven and the scent of pumpkin pies sweeps out.

I’m so worried about her, I nearly drop the pies. Then a suspicion tickles the back of my brain.

“Are you hungover?” I ask.

Cady flinches, then bows her head in shame. She keeps mixing cake batter in a bowl, but she’s swaying on her feet, completely defeated.

“You are, aren’t you?” The pie tray goes down with a clatter, the oven swings shut, and then I’m circling behind my assistant baker to sniff her neck. The scent of whiskey coming out of her pores—it’s enough to make my eyes sting. I reel back, half amused, half horrified. “Jesus Christ, Cady!”

Her head droops even further over the cake bowl. “I—I know. I’m sorry.”

Don’t know whether to laugh or tell her off. More than anything, though, I want to wrap my girl up in a warm blanket, give her some painkillers, and set her somewhere to hydrate.

“Wait there.”

Silence rings through the kitchen as I go to the break room. The chairs in here are basic, made of metal, but I squeeze one through the door anyway and set it in the corner of the kitchen. When I nod at the seat, Cady sighs, her shoulders slumping. Then she sets the cake bowl on the counter and walks to the chair like a convicted criminal walking to the gallows.

“If you’re going to fire me,” she says, “you can just do it fast. Get it over with, Jasper.”

“Shut up.” My voice is too fond to sound angry. When Cady sits in the chair, I fetch my coat from the wall hook and drape it around her shoulders. It’s the closest thing we have here to a blanket. “Have you taken painkillers?”

Cady’s eyes drift closed, and she holds my coat close beneath her chin. “Uh-huh.”

“They haven’t helped?”

“Not yet.”

My chest aches, but hey—at least she’s talking to me now. At least that weird frosty silence has thawed.

“I can’t believe I’ve done this,” Cady mutters, her forehead creasing with frustration and self-loathing. “This is the busiest time of year, you’re already working double shifts, and then I’ve come in hungover like a complete jerk. All because of… well. You should fire me.”

“Never.” I fetch Cady a glass of water. Her fingers are cold when I nudge it into her hand. “Drink up.”

All because of… well.

Because of what?

“I’m going to make this up to you, I promise.” Cady rests her forehead against the cool glass of water, her eyes still closed. “I’m going to come in early for the rest of the week. I’ll work the weekend too. And I will never, ever drink a whole bottle of whiskey again, I swear. God, I feel like roadkill.”

“I’ll take that last promise.” The pies look good as I check them one by one, then ferry them over to the cooling rack. I risk a glance over at the sad, huddled little mound in my coat when I add, “Why did you drink the whole thing?”

Cady makes an incoherent noise, flapping her free hand like that’s an answer.

“Cady. Try again.”

She sighs, then peeks open one eye.

I walk over, then crouch so I’m at her eye-level. My knees crack like an old man’s, but she’s nice enough not to point it out.

This close, and now that I’m past the shock of the whiskey, I can smell her beneath the alcohol fumes. Her soap and coconut sugar scent; the sweetness of her laundry powder. It’s always good enough to make my stomach growl.

Cady rolls her one open eye.

“I was being a baby,” she says, gritting out the words like she’s annoyed to have to spell out the obvious. The water quivers in the glass, still pressed against her forehead. Is she feverish? “You were so grossed out by the mistletoe, and it hurt my feelings. So I did the opposite of the mature adult thing and drowned my sorrows in cheap whiskey. It’s no excuse for turning up to work like this, though. I really am sorry.”

I stare at my assistant, frozen in my crouch. Grossed out? Grossed out by the mistletoe? Is that really what she thinks?

“What,” I say stupidly.

Cady huffs and sets the glass of water down on the counter. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Let’s get back to work.”

She moves to get up, but I grab a handful of my own coat and tug her back down. Small and slender as she is, Cady’s always easy to move around, but when she’s hungover like this, she’s like a reed in the wind. She plops back down into the chair with a soft sound of surprise.

“Wait, wait. Hang on a second. We need to clear something up.”

If possible, Cady turns even grayer. “Please don’t say it,” she whispers, but no. She needs to hear this. She’s got this all backward.

“I wasn’t grossed out.”

Cady opens her mouth to argue—then blinks. “You weren’t?”

“No. I didn’t think you’d want to… you know. Kiss me.” I wave a hand up and down my body, huge and hunkered over and straining against my tunic as it is, and my chest warms when Cady splutters in outrage.

“Of course I would! What are you talking about? Jasper!”

She would? Of course she would?

I split into the widest, goofiest grin of my life, and after a split second, Cady laughs and smiles back. Her heels kick beneath the chair.

“Okay,” I say, pushing against my thighs to stand up, because I’m suddenly crackling with excess energy, and I need to burn it off by baking some pies. “That’s sorted, then. Back to work. You drink that water.”

Can’t get carried away by this. Can’t read too much into Cady’s words.

So she wouldn’t mind kissing me once, as part of a mistletoe tradition. That’s good, that’s the best news I’ve received in a long time, and that alone is shocking enough—but that doesn’t mean Cady wants just any kiss from me, any time, any place. That doesn’t mean she wants more.

I’m a man of big appetites, but I can’t get greedy. Not where Cady is concerned.

I’d rather have one mistletoe kiss per year and count my blessings than chase her away by asking for more.