Page 8 of Holidate Scramble
Before I could respond—before I could think about why that observation burrowed under my skin—the first wave of families descended. The next three hours became a blur of messy fingers, spilled sprinkles, and surprisingly heated debates about candy cane placement. A five-year-old informed me my technique was "wrong" because I'd placed the door off-center. Her mother apologized, but the kid had a point. Functional didn't always mean aesthetically pleasing.
Despite my initial resistance, I found myself absorbed in the process. When a boy's roof kept sliding off, I fashioned support beams from pretzel rods—a solution that earned me a high-five covered in icing. When a grandmother wanted to recreate her childhood home, I helped her engineer a second story using graham crackers as load-bearing walls.
Piper and I developed a workflow without discussion. She handled design and customer relations while I managed structural integrity and supply organization. It was like being in surgery—anticipating needs, moving in sync, communicating without words.
"You two work so well together," an elderly woman observed, watching us help her granddaughter. "How long have you been a couple?"
"Oh, we're not—" I started.
"Not long," Piper said smoothly, her hand sliding into mine like it belonged there. "But when you know, you know. Right, honey?"
The endearment made my mind go blank. "Right," I managed, hyperaware of her fingers interlaced with mine.
After the woman moved on, Piper released my hand. The absence of contact felt wrong. I flexed my fingers to dispel the lingering warmth of her touch.
The crowd finally thinned around one o'clock. We stood behind our station, surveying the carnage—icing smears on every surface, candy ground into the floor, and there was something sticky in my hair.
"You have—" Piper reached up, brushing green icing from my temple. "There."
"Occupational hazard," I said, my voice rougher than intended.
"You were good with the kids. Patient." She tilted her head. "Not what I expected."
"Children are straightforward. They say what they mean, ask for what they need. It's refreshing."
"Unlike adults?"
"Adults lie. To others, to themselves. They present symptoms that mask the real problem." I thought of Adrienne, how she'd hidden her ambitions behind false promises. "Children just want their gingerbread houses to stay standing."
"Speaking of which, we should make samples," Piper said, clearly sensing the shift in my mood. "Show people what's possible."
We claimed a corner table, spreading supplies between us. She immediately abandoned all restraint—creating a structure that violated several laws of physics while somehow remaining upright. Every possible candy found its way onto her creation in combinations that would give a nutritionist nightmares.
"It looks like a sugar bomb detonated," I observed.
"It's whimsical! Joyful! Full of character!" She examined my creation with obvious disapproval. "Yours looks like it was designed by a computer algorithm."
I'd built a traditional house—perpendicular walls, forty-five-degree roof pitch, symmetrical window placement. "It's architecturally sound."
"It's boring."
"It's classic."
"It needs something more." Before I could stop her, she'd grabbed blue icing and created elaborate swirls along my roof line, then pressed yellow star-shaped candies into the design. "There. Now it has soul."
"You just vandalized my property."
"I improved it. That's what I do—bring color to beige spaces."
"I'm not beige."
"You wore beige to our first meeting."
"Charcoal gray."
"Which is just beige with ambition."
A laugh escaped before I could stop it. "You're impossible."
