Chapter Sixteen

Cliff

So much work remained to be done at the office, but the holidays barreled toward us at top speed, and we silently agreed to miss not one bit of them. A Secret Santa gift that Forrest tried to keep the recipient from seeing had been the catalyst. Yes, we'd been working together for a while but since he'd been going through some training and working on specific projects we just hadn't really connected.

As to the Secret Santa? Frank was on to his giver from the get-go because his presents had been so perfect for him. But it wasn't my little's fault. He'd gone above and beyond in his attempt to keep the secret, and the only reason I knew about Frank's figuring it out was because he told me in confidence and nobody else. Which I thought was nice of him.

Our work party was a success, held at a hotel ballroom decorated to the nines for Christmas with no fewer than nine trees reaching for the high ceiling, garland strung all around the room, and tables set with holiday china and glassware.

A band performed on a stage bedecked with flashing wreaths and candy canes, the performers all wearing green velvet suits or red velvet dresses and playing the club versions of everyone's Christmas favorites. So much fun and an opportunity to do something I'd been wishing for since the first time I held him in my arms. We sat at our table chatting with coworkers and dining on prime rib roast, ham, and more sides than should have been legal. Our holiday-loving company went all out in this final event before we shut down for a few days over Christmas. We did not close completely between Christmas and New Year's Day—thus the need to cover the reception desk—but we went down to a skeleton staff, so most of us would not see one another until January, and we were all sharing our plans for the festive days to come.

I'd never been great at fast dancing, but I was willing to give it a try if it meant I got to get on the floor with Forrest. Then, the band took a break and the soft, sweet strains of a slow song began. "That's ‘The Christmas Song' by Nat King Cole," Forrest whispered to me, swaying in his seat. "Old but perfect."

"Would you like to dance, my sweet boy?" I whispered back, his smile and nod all the answer I needed. I recognized the tune but couldn't have named it. Leading him out to the middle of the floor, I placed my arms around his waist, and he looped his around my neck, and together, we moved around. No fancy steps at all, but we moved well together, as if we'd done it a thousand times. A lot like our lovemaking, and our daddy/little connection, meant to be. We stayed out there through a couple more slow and a fast because I didn't think either of us noticed the band returning. I didn't for sure, and it wasn't until we bumped into a few people that we returned just in time for the server to wheel up with the baked Alaska for our table. He poured rum and lit the dessert on fire. We all clapped. Work parties could be real drags, but not this one. After dinner there were door prizes and games, and we popped our party crackers and put the silly paper hats on our heads. When he wasn't paying attention, I snapped a photo of my sweet boy, face wreathed with smiles, the picture of holiday joy.

The North Pole Photo Booth pictures were great, and Forrest was planning to frame the one of the two of us, but the candid shot…priceless.

After all the festivities, we went home to Forrest's apartment because Nick was there and we didn't want to leave him alone for so long then went to bed and made slow, sweet, wonderful love. My sweet boy was everything to me, and I couldn't even remember how I'd found the slightest bit of happiness before he was in my life.

Next morning, we slept in a bit, or rather we planned to, but the sun had barely risen over the horizon when I found myself opening my eyes to find my sweet boy propped up on an elbow, watching me sleep. When I cleared the blur of sleepiness enough, I realized he was wearing a chef's hat with a sprig of holly and an apron that read, I Make the Cutest Cookies . By the time we left the event, we'd gone to a local pub for an after-party then of course had our own private celebration that went on well into the small hours. But today was Cookie Saturday, a holiday I'd agreed to in bed one night when feeling very relaxed. Not that I wouldn't have said yes anyway…but this morning, I wished I'd suggested Cookie Sunday because I was very much in the mood for another two or three hours of sleep. But then…I looked into his eyes, which twinkled below his chef's hat and above the apron and suppressed a sigh.

"You're awake!" He bounced off the bed and onto his feet. "I was afraid we wouldn't have time to bake all the cookies. Tomorrow is Cookie Decoration Day, remember?" Somewhere in there, we had more apartment decorating to do, the tree to finish, and I was fairly certain there was a Christmas event at Chained we'd signed up for tomorrow late afternoon. I was having a wonderful time, but it was all a blur at this point, and while I didn't want to disappoint my sweet boy, we had to be sure to schedule adequate sleep in there…somewhere.

That would not be today.

We had planned to give cookies as gifts, and therefore hadn't shopped beyond ingredients, decorations, and containers in which to deliver/ship our delightful treats. I'd never been a master baker, and I could only hope that Forrest's skill level could carry us both so we weren't sending something inedible to our families and friends.

But, I was willing to give it my best shot and if it was a disaster, I could suggest we order Hickory Farms or maybe cakes from one of those Food Network chefs who sold their treats online.

Please let this work out! My sweet boy would be crushed if my lack of ability caused us to poison everyone.

With that depressing thought in mind, I trudged into the bathroom to shower and get dressed for the day of baking. I almost skipped the shower, assuming I was going to be covered in flour and butter shortly, but did step under the spray in the interest of hygiene.

When I arrived in the kitchen, I stumbled backward at the sight that met my eyes. Not only was there coffee, toast, and two perfectly fried eggs waiting for me, but Forrest was already rolling out dough in a manner that any of those TV chefs would have no issue with.

"You really know what you're doing," I said, sitting at the counter and reaching for the steaming mug.

"Christmas is my jam," he said modestly. "But I hope I didn't push you into this if you don't like baking cookies."

"Oh, I like it," I protested. "But most of my experience involves tubes of pasteurized cookie dough…and mostly I just eat it with a spoon."

"Daddy." He shook his head slowly. "I've finally found something I can help you with. Unless you'd rather just watch?"

"Oh no." I dunked a buttered whole wheat toast triangle into my egg yolk. "Let me get my energy up with this delicious breakfast, and I am ready to follow your directions."

If I'd thought the holidays in general were a blur, the weekend was more so. We baked until bedtime—me mostly dealing with scooping drop cookies on the sheets and taking them out of the oven to spatula onto the cooling racks. He had a bunch of cooling racks. My sweet boy made cutouts and layered slices and even macarons, red and green with a mint or chocolate cream filling. I'd always thought those had to come from a bakery.

Cookie Decorating Sunday was also all day, making us miss the Chained event, but I didn't care. I never knew cookie baking could be so much fun.