Page 19 of Not In The Christmas Plan
I do my best to ignore Grant as he rattles around the kitchen finding space for all the food, opening cabinets, and using the microwave. After a few minutes it feels wrong sitting here while he works. I don’t know if that’s guilt talking, or because I’m not used to a man actually pulling his weight without having to be asked.
Just when I think I should offer to at least put up the three boxes of cereal Grant couldn’t choose between, he spins toward me.
“Bam!” He sets a stick of butter in front of me the same way I did the list, though not nearly as forcefully.
“Bruh, what are you doing?”
“You said you need your butter at room temperature. So, there you go.” He folds his arms across his chest looking all proud and smug. “Don’t say Big Daddy Grant never did anything nice for you.”
“This is the second time in one day that you’ve referred to yourself as Big Daddy, and I need you to get that under control real quick.”
I quirk an eyebrow, staring at Grant expectantly until he bows in defeat. “Yes, Your Honor.”
My lips twitch and I turn back to the butter before he can see the smile threatening to break through. I press a finger against the wrapper, and it gives. Perfectly softened.
I stare up at Grant. “What kind of holiday sorcery is this?”
“No sorcery. All Big Dad—” he catches himself. “That’s all me.”
I get up and follow him back to the counter. “If you’re trying to tell me you’re a handy man, baby expert,andkitchen genius, I will send you packing right now,” I say lightly but I’m only halfway joking. No man is this perfect at everything.
“See, I told you there’s a lot you don’t know about me.” He slips the apron over my head, then twirls a finger for me to turn around. His voice comes warm at my back as he ties the strings. “But for your information, my mom taught me that trick. One time she forgot she was supposed to bring cookies to my league’s end of season party happening that day. She showed me how to heat a glass dish to get the butter ready fast.”
When he’s done, I face him again. “Let me guess, she only forgot becauseyouforgot to tell her you signed her up?”
He presses a finger to his mouth. “Shhh. As far as she’s concerned, it slipped her mind in the chaos of three kids and five different activities.”
I know I’m in trouble, because the way his lips curve around that finger make mine ache, and I’m imagining him bending down to lay the same touch against my mouth.
“Alright,” Grant says, thankfully oblivious to the scene playing in my mind. “Let’s get this cookie party started. What’s first?”
“You’re staying?”
“Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t let Ivy or Ms. Thomas down.”
And of course he doesn’t give me the chance to argue. He slips on one of Dad’s old aprons and waits for me by the hand mixer and bowls he already set up. I grab the butter off the table, and we get started.
Grant watches me cream the butter and sugar, then takes over when it’s time to add the eggs. His hands may be made for basketballs, but he cracks the delicate eggs with careful precision, allowing only the yolks to slide into the bowl.
“What?” he asks when he catches me staring.
My cheeks heat and I shake my head. “Nothing. You’re just so zoned in. It reminds me how Grant got Ivy and me tickets to one of your games when they first started dating. It was your turn to make some free-throw shotsand while the crowd was going wild, you were focused on nothing but the goal post.”
He pauses for a beat, and I catch the flicker of sadness in his eyes before he covers it with mock seriousness, shaking his head. “Basketball does not have goal posts. Totally different sport. And of course I’m in the zone. There’s one thing I don’t play about—egg handling.”
Ivy mentioned before how Grant doesn’t like to talk about basketball, and now I see it for myself. His old career is clearly an open wound for him, and I have no intention of poking it.
So, instead I squint at him and tilt my head. “Wait a minute, didn’t you say the same thing about sweet potato pie?”
A one-shouldered shrug. “There’s two things I don’t play about.”
“Okay, Dr. Eggman. Let’s move on to the flour.”
He fills the measuring cup with an even layer of flour.
“Just dump a little at a time,” I tell him while holding the hand mixer at low speed.
But my little and his little aren’t the same, because the next second a cloud of flour explodes between us. I squeal as it covers my sweater, my face, and no doubt my hair.
