Twelve Dates For Christmas

Chapter 8- Millie

It was day four, which meant that Roth was coming at any moment. Would we go out or stay in?

I swallowed the last of my fourth cup of coffee when I heard his rumbling engine pull into the driveway. For several moments I sat frozen, until the knock at the door sent me springing to my feet. I pulled it open, the bitterly cold winter's day stealing my breath.

Roth's sandy-blond hair was perfectly styled, his leather jacket open, as though he were impervious to the cold. He held several paper bags, and I could see a metal tin peeking out of the top.

"Hey," he said in that low, husky voice that made my body react without my permission, while he wore a tentative smile.

"Hey," I answered in a choked whisper. The temperature outside was so bad schools and most businesses had shut down. The bar was definitely closed, which I was thankful for. A blizzard was coming, but I doubted even Armageddon would keep these guys away.

When words escaped me, I simply moved aside, allowing him entrance.

Roth seemed to hesitate, then allowed himself to step inside. I slammed the door shut, having sufficiently frozen my ass off.

"May I put these in the kitchen?" he asked. His posture was stiff, and I could tell he was still uneasy after our first date.

"Yeah," I said, smiling brightly.

He strode past me and I went to investigate what was in the bags. Leaning in the doorway, I watched him bring out Manitoba flour, sugar, yeast, butter, honey, and a large star-shaped pan from the bags. Finally, a bowl covered in cling film.

"We're baking?" I asked with a giddy rush of excitement.

"I thought I could show you how to make pandoro."

I nodded, skipping over to the counter where he was organizing his stash of baking supplies.

"I had to start the first part last night. We can do some of this today and you'll have to finish it tomorrow, but by then you should be an expert." His smirk made the invisible butterflies within my chest take flight—thousands of tiny wings fluttering between my ribs.

"Okay," I said. Then an idea hit me. "Do you like vinyl?"

Before he could answer, I closed my eyes and focused on my dad's old record player, which I kept in my bedroom. In a blink it appeared on the coffee table in the living room, with my favorite album already on the spindle. Carefully, I guided the needle in place with my magic. Peering around the corner to make sure I'd done it right, I broke into a wide smile when the music began to play.

Roth laughed from the counter. "Metallica? Really?"

"Absolutely. Now let's bake!"

Roth, as it turns out, was an amazing teacher. He and I stood elbow to elbow rolling and kneading the dough while adding the ingredients. Baking wasn't a natural talent for me like it was for my mom, but we'd done it enough when I lived at home that I understood the basics.

I swayed a little to the beat, feeling his eyes on me. When we pulled the dough into the bowl and covered it to wait for four or five hours, he began to clear things away.

"Awww, that went way too quickly," I said pouting, helping scrub the flour off the countertop.

He leaned close, his nose brushing the shell of my ear. "We're not done yet."