“Can’t wait to see what the townsfolk come up with.” Andrew approaches from behind, his voice warm like a cup of hot chocolate.
Turning around, I find myself face to face with him. Dark hair tousled as if he ran his fingers through it one too many times and eyes twinkling under the streetlights. He’s holding two cups, steam curling up from the surface, the sweet scent wafting in the cold air.
“For you.” He hands me a cup.
I take it gratefully, wrapping my frozen fingers around the warm surface. “Thanks.”
“Couldn’t have you freezing on me, now, could I?” His grin is lopsided, and I can’t help but return it.
“Not right before I save Christmas for the whole town.” I put my hands on my hips.
He chuckles, a low sound that sends warmth curling through me. “The town’s hero.”
I roll my eyes and take a sip of the hot chocolate, basking in the heat that spreads down my throat and into my belly. “Not all heroes wear badges, Detective Harrington.”
“Some do, however, wield paintbrushes.” Andrew grins back at me, his brown eyes sparkling with mirth under the streetlight. He takes a sip from his cup, a content sigh escaping him.
“Are you free tonight?”
“I’m free for a few hours.” He looks around then whispers, “Then I have my own saving-the-town to do.” He winks.
“Oh, new lead?” I ask.
“That is on a need-to-know basis.” He boops my nose.
“Yes, and I need to know. Once a journalist, always a journalist.”
“You should hear some good news tomorrow, but in the meantime, what did you have in mind for tonight?”
“Meet me at my house in thirty minutes. I need to wash this paint out of my hair.” I grin as he nods.
“See you soon.”
With a final wave, I turn to head back to my parents’ house, my heart pounding in anticipation. As I walk away, I glance back to see Andrew still standing there, looking after me with a smile lingering on his lips.
By the time Andrew arrives at my doorstep, I’m ready. Opening the door, I see him standing there with a wide grin on his face.
“I hope you like cookies,” I say, my voice filled with a delight that I can’t quite suppress.
“Depends on the cookie,” he replies, his brown eyes gleaming with amusement.
“Okay, Mr. Picky. You’re in luck then because we’re making a variety.” I lead him into the kitchen, where I’ve laid out the ingredients for an array of cookies: chocolate chip, gingerbread, and sugar cookies.
“Are we feeding an army?”
“Pretty much. You mentioned it was a Christmas tradition with your mom.”
He nods, a soft smile tugs on his lips. “Yeah, it was. We would make batches and batches of cookies. My mom loved to give them out as gifts.”
“Perfect. I didn’t know what kind you two would make so I planned on a variety, and we can hand them out while everyone’s painting the shop windows.”
“That’s a wonderful idea, Jane,” he says, his brown eyes softening even more. “My mom would have loved that.”
“Then let’s do her proud,” I say, a determined smile on my face.
“In the spirit of Christmas, I like it. Let’s get started, then.” Andrew’s grin is infectious, and we dive into baking with an enthusiasm that fills the kitchen with laughter and warmth.
As we’re rolling out the gingerbread dough, Andrew looks over at me with a glint in his eye. Swiftly, he reaches out and dabs some flour on my nose. “Now you look like a proper baker,” he teases.
