Alyssa snorted. “You’ll be fine. These don’t even require eggs, just lots of upper body strength.” She pantomimed kneading dough.
Evelyn rolled her eyes but let herself be guided through the steps. The first challenge came with the butter. Evelyn approached it like a surgical procedure, cutting precise cubes with a knife she’d apparently brought from home—because of course she had.
“Are you measuring those?” Alyssa asked, watching Evelyn line up butter squares like tiny soldiers.
“They need to be uniform,” Evelyn said, not looking up. “Otherwise the dough won’t incorporate properly.”
“It’s just gingerbread.”
“Everything deserves precision.” Evelyn held up a cube, examining it critically. “This one’s slightly larger. It’ll throw off the ratio.”
Alyssa bit back a laugh. “You’re aware we’re making cookies for dogs, right? They don’t care about butter ratios.”
“I care about butter ratios,” Evelyn replied, and there was something so earnest in her voice that Alyssa felt her chest go warm.
Bug, sensing an opportunity, positioned himself strategically between them, eyes tracking the butter with laser focus.
“Don’t even think about it,” Alyssa warned him.
Bug’s expression suggested he was thinking about it very much.
The rubbing-in process became a minor battlefield. Alyssa demonstrated first, fingertips working the butter into the flour with practiced ease. “You want it to look like breadcrumbs,” she explained. “Nice and crumbly.”
Evelyn’s technique was methodical, working the butter into the flour with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb. Alyssa, watching her, couldn’t help but smile at the intense focus on her face.
“You’re overthinking it,” Alyssa said gently.
“I’m being thorough.”
“You’re treating it like a science experiment.”
“Baking is a science,” Evelyn countered.
Alyssa reached over and placed her hands over Evelyn’s, guiding them through the mixture. “Feel the texture? When it’s like this, you’re done. You don’t need to be quite so…precise.”
Alyssa was acutely aware of how close she was standing, the warmth of Evelyn’s body next to hers, the faint scent of her perfume mixing with cinnamon and ginger. She swallowed hard.
“Right,” Alyssa managed, stepping back quickly. “You’ve got it now.”
Evelyn’s cheeks were slightly flushed, though whether from the warmth of the kitchen or something else, Alyssa couldn’t tell.
The treacle incident came next. Alyssa had warned Evelyn about the stickiness, but nothing could have prepared either of them for the chaos that ensued when Evelyn tried to measure it out.
“It’s not coming out of the spoon,” Evelyn said, shaking the utensil with increasing violence.
“You have to warm it first—”
Too late. The treacle released all at once, splattering across the counter, Evelyn’s apron, and somehow, inexplicably, Bug’s left ear.
There was a moment of stunned silence.
Then Alyssa started laughing—proper, gasping laughter that made her double over. Evelyn stared at the treacle carnage, then at Bug, who was attempting to lick his own ear with limited success.
“This is a disaster,” Evelyn said, but her lips were twitching.
“This is baking,” Alyssa corrected, still laughing. “Welcome to the chaos.”
Evelyn picked up a tea towel and dabbed ineffectually at the treacle on her apron. “I’m going to smell like Christmas for a week.”
