Page 7 of His Big Holiday Firefighter
I let the call go to voicemail.
“I should go get cleaned up,” Noah said, stepping back, though his eyes never left my face. “Early shift tomorrow.”
“Right.” My voice sounded strange to my own ears, rough with all the things I couldn’t say. “Tomorrow.”
I watched him leave, the recipe box still clutched in my hands like an anchor. My phone buzzed again, insistent, but I couldn’t bring myself to answer it.
Not when my skin still tingled from his touch. Not when the recipe cards seemed to whisper of other possibilities, other choices.
Not when I was starting to suspect that my short time back in Pine Ridge might not be enough time at all.
And not when I was wondering if maybe my grandmother had known exactly what she was doing when she left me this bakery and all its memories.
CHAPTER FIVE
The winter festivalhad transformed Pine Ridge’s main street into a Christmas card come to life.
Strings of white lights crisscrossed overhead, their glow catching the early morning frost that coated every surface like diamond dust. Steam rose from food vendors’ stalls, carrying the scents of hot chocolate, roasted chestnuts, and fresh-baked goods into the crisp December air.
The whole town appeared to shimmer with holiday magic, and for the first time since I’d arrived, I felt a pull of nostalgia that wasn’t entirely unwelcome.
I got to our demonstration booth early, telling myself it was professional pride and not a desperate desire to see Noah sooner. As I arranged mixing bowls with practiced precision, familiar voices and laughter drifted through the air, reminding me of countless festivals from my childhood. My grandmother had always said the winter festival was when Pine Ridge’s heart beat strongest.
“Need a hand?” Noah’s voice, warm and rich as melted chocolate, made my heart skip.
He was standing there holding two paper cups, his cheeks pink from the cold. He wore a soft-looking red flannel shirtunder his jacket that gave his shoulders an even broader look, as if that were even possible. I had to force myself to look away.
“Thanks.” I accepted the coffee, and our fingers brushed. The contact sent a warmth through me that had nothing to do with the hot drink. “I thought you had an early shift?”
“Switched with Mike.” Noah set down his cup and began unpacking his equipment with the easy confidence of someone completely at home. “Couldn’t let you face Mrs. Henderson’s judgment alone. She’s still mad about the snickerdoodle incident of ‘19.”
The casual way he referenced town history made me feel something—envy or regret or maybe a messy combination of both. “You really know everyone here, don’t you?”
His movements paused. He glanced over at me, his expression carefully neutral. “Yeah, I guess I do.” His eyes searched my face. “Is that a bad thing?”
Before I could answer, before I could untangle the complicated mess of emotions his question stirred up, Mayor Thompson appeared in a whirl of holiday perfume and enthusiasm. “Boys! Perfect timing. We need a last-minute demonstration for the morning crowd. Nothing fancy, just something to get people excited about the competition.”
“We’d love to,” Noah said, saving me.
We ended up making Nai Nai Lee’s famous hot chocolate cookies, the ones that melted on your tongue like drinking chocolate in solid form. Working together in front of an audience felt surprisingly natural, like we’d been doing it for years. Noah handled the crowd while I focused on technique, our movements around each other as smooth as a choreographed dance.
“Now,” Noah said to our rapt audience, his voice carrying easily over the festival sounds, “the secret is in how you fold the batter. James?”
I demonstrated the technique, hyperaware of Noah’s presence behind me, of the solid warmth radiating from his body. “You want to keep the air in the mixture.” I tried to sound professional despite the way Noah’s hand on my shoulder sent a jolt of electricity through me. “It’s all about being gentle but confident.”
“Like most good things in life,” Noah added with a wink that made several women in the audience sigh appreciatively. The tips of his ears were pink, and I had to resist a sudden, ridiculous urge to touch them.
The morning flew by in a blur of demonstrations and samples. I relaxed into the rhythm of it, enjoying the way Noah could make anyone smile and the genuine warmth of the community’s response. Children watched wide-eyed as we shaped cookies. Elderly couples shared stories about the bakery’s history, and even Mrs. Henderson seemed impressed by our teamwork.
“You two remind me of your grandmother and grandfather,” she told me during a quiet moment, her eyes twinkling. “They used to dance around each other just like this in the kitchen. Took them forever to admit what everyone else could see.” She patted my hand. “Sometimes the best recipes take time to perfect.”
Sarah’s arrival, with her heels clicking purposefully against the pavement, saved me from having to respond. “James! The buyers want to make an offer. Above asking price.”
I felt Noah stiffen beside me and saw his shoulders tense, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. “Can we discuss this later?”
“They need an answer tonight.” Her professional smile didn’t quite hide her impatience. “Call me after the festival.”
A new tension settled between me and Noah. The rest of the afternoon passed under its weight. As we packed up under thedarkening sky, fat snowflakes began to fall, catching in Noah’s hair and eyelashes.
