Page 16 of His Big Holiday Firefighter
“Bakers!” Mayor Thompson’s voice carried over the growing crowd, bright with holiday enthusiasm. “Welcome to the 50th Annual Pine Ridge Christmas Cookie Competition! This year’s challenge: create three different cookies that tell a story of home.”
My hands stilled on the mixing bowl, the metal cool against my suddenly warm palms.
Home.
A week ago, that word had meant my sterile apartment in Seattle and my job. Now...
Noah’s hand covered mine, warm and slightly callused. “Hey. We’ve got this. Just like practice, but with better lighting.”
Mayor Thompson shouted, “Contestants ready?”
I glanced at the absurdly handsome man standing next to me. There was no one else I’d rather be doing this with.
Noah gave me a playfully confident wink.
“Ready, set... bake!”
We started with Nai Nai Lee’s famous snickerdoodles. I handled the spice mixture, carefully balancing the cinnamon and nutmeg, while Noah worked the butter to the perfect temperature. His movements were confident and sure. We moved around each other like we’d been baking together for far longer than we had, anticipating each other’s needs without a single word.
The dough was quickly formed into balls, then rolled in the cinnamon mixture. The first batch went into the oven.
The second cookie was Noah’s creation: a maple-pecan shortbread inspired by winter nights at the fire station. I watched in amazement as his powerful hands, capable of carrying people from burning buildings, shaped the dough with an artist’s touch. Each cookie was garnished with a perfect pecan half, arranged just so. That kind of attention to detail spoke of hours of practice and a genuine love for the craft.
But it was our third cookie that I was most proud of. We’d developed it together during late-night practice sessions, combining my technical precision with Noah’s intuitive creativity. A chocolate-ginger cookie with orange zest and a hint of cardamom. Complex, unexpected, and somehow perfect.
Kind of like us.
Halfway through our bake, disaster struck. The temperature gauge on our oven started fluctuating wildly, threatening to ruin our entire batch. I watched in horror as the digital display jumped between numbers.
“No,” I muttered, panic rising in my throat. “No, no, no?—”
I immediately switched into problem-solving mode, my eyes scanning the room. All the other competitors were busy at their stations. Not a spare oven anywhere.
“James.” Noah’s voice cut through my spiral, steady as always. “Remember what your grandmother always said about equipment?”
“Sometimes things break so you can learn to fix them,” I quoted automatically. The words were a balm.
“She used to say it every time I messed up something at the bakery. And trust me, I messed up plenty when I was starting out.”
Noah was already adjusting the oven’s controls with practiced ease, peering at the digital display as it flashed erratically. His firefighter’s knowledge of heating systems was proving unexpectedly valuable.
He kneeled, checking the settings, his brow furrowed in concentration. He squinted, noting it had stabilized for a second at a dangerously low reading. “This is definitely the digital gauge,” he murmured, more to himself than to me. “It’s probably a faulty connection.”
Before doing anything drastic, he opened the oven door just a crack, letting out a puff of warm, sugary air. He quickly checked the internal temperature sensor. Satisfied the cookies were still baking properly, he closed the door and reached for a small tool pouch he’d packed with our supplies.
“We’ll have to turn it off for just a second.”
He flipped the switch. I silently prayed the cookies would be okay.
With deft precision, he unscrewed the small side panel next to the digital display. “Sometimes it just needs a little reset.” He pulled out a couple of wires that were slightly loose. He reconnected them, and I felt the tension in my own shoulders ease as he tightened the screws back in place.
“Come on, come on,” he urged quietly. He reassembled the panel and flipped the power switch back on. The digital gauge blinked to life, then stabilized at the correct temperature. Asmile of pure relief spread across his face as he glanced up at me. “See? Good as new.”
The weight on my shoulders vanished. “You did it.”
“Just a little experience and a lot of practice,” Noah replied, wiping his hands on his apron. “Now, let’s keep an eye on those cookies. They’ll need to come out soon, and I don’t want to lose this batch.”
I nodded, feeling a renewed sense of partnership as we worked side by side, the red numbers on the competition clock counting down.
