Page 73 of The Tattered Gloves
But there, side by side, was my hand and Sam’s.
Barely touching.
His pinkie rested against mine, the slightest bit of pressure.
He must have noticed as well, but he didn’t move. He instead waited for my reaction.
What was my reaction?
Ding, ding!
Suddenly, the spell was broken as the bell at the front, alerting us of a customer, chose to make the decision for me. Hopping to my feet, I bolted for the door and didn’t look back.
Because, if I did, I’d have to acknowledge it.
I’d have to move forward.
In fear or acceptance.
Was I ready?
Was I brave?
Or was I drowning in too much flour?
IT WAS THANKSGIVING all over again.
I awoke the next morning to the sweet smell of cinnamon and chocolate, quickly realizing she’d done it again.
Food overload.
Slipping into a pair of warmer socks and taking a minute to brush my hair, I wandered into the living room and spotted her in the open kitchen, dressed in green and red pajamas, dancing around to holiday music.
The sun was barely up, and she was dancing.
“Hot chocolate is on the stove,” she announced without even bothering to turn her head.
How did she know I was here?
She was becoming a master at this parenting thing. She’d even developed the invisible eyes in the back of her head.
Creepy.
I didn’t spend too much time contemplating that. Hot chocolate was calling my name.
“I bought some whipped cream, too. It’s in the fridge,” she added, never missing a beat as she continued to move along to the popular Christmas song.
Grabbing a mug from the cabinet above me, it didn’t take me long to notice the cinnamon rolls baking in the oven or the gigantic casserole below it.
And it was all homemade.
How long had she been up?
“When did you find the time to do all of this?” I asked as I used the ladle to scoop up a large cup of steaming hot cocoa. The rich scent made my mouth water instantly.
“Some of it I prepped last night after you went to bed. The rest I did this morning.”
“This morning? But it’s barely seven!”
