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Antonio chuckles, his eyes meeting mine for a brief moment before he focuses on measuring out the sugar.
I take a deep breath, the scent of vanilla and sugar filling my nostrils, as I glance around the kitchen. Olivia and Peter are working on the dough, their laughter like music to my ears. Benedict stands at the counter, cracking eggs with precision, while Hudson carefully measures out the baking powder. Antonio, finally warming up to the idea of joining in, reluctantly sifts flour into a bowl.
“Mommy, can I add the chocolate chips now?” Peter asks, his eyes sparkling with excitement.
“Go ahead! The more, the merrier!” I reply, grinning at his enthusiasm.
“Chopping duty for me, then,” says Hudson, flashing me a wicked smile as he brandishes a knife and begins chopping nuts with enviable dexterity.
“Watch out, guys. Hudson’s got a knife,” Benedict teases, shaking his head in mock dismay.
“Hey, it takes skill to wield this thing so gracefully,” Hudson retorts, slicing through the almonds with ease. His movements are fluid, almost hypnotic, and I feel a sudden urge to be the object of that skilled attention.
“Graceful like a ballerina,” I quip, trying to keep the mood light and playful.
“Exactly.” Hudson smirks, doing a quick pirouette, knife still in hand. The group erupts into laughter, and I feel a warmth radiate from within as we share this lighthearted moment.
“Antonio, how’s the flour coming along?” I ask, turning my attention to him.
“Fine, fine,” he grumbles, but there’s an unmistakable glint of amusement in his eyes. “I don’t see how this is supposed to be fun, though.”
“Maybe you just need to loosen up a bit,” I suggest, reaching over to playfully flick some flour at him.
“Hey!” he exclaims, trying to dodge my attack, but he laughs which makes me feel like I’ve gotten what I wanted.
And sparked something in everyone else, apparently.
I watch as Olivia dips her fingers into the pink icing, her eyes locked onto Peter. With a swift motion, she playfully smears the sugary concoction across his cheek, and the room explodes with laughter. The sound is infectious, and I feel an irresistible pull to join in the chaos.
“Sorry, Harper,” Hudson says, though his apologetic tone is betrayed by the mischievous glint in his eyes. In one smooth movement, he swipes a generous dollop of blue icing across my face.
“Hey!” I exclaim, gasping in surprise at the cold sensation. However, my initial shock quickly dissolves into laughter, and I reach for the nearest bowl of icing to exact my revenge. “You’re going down, Hudson!”
“Bring it on!” he taunts, dodging my attempts to smear the frosting on him.
As our playful battle ensues, I notice Antonio standing off to the side, watching the scene unfold with a hesitant smile. I can’t help but feel a pang of desire for him to join in the fun—to see his serious demeanor melt into laughter.
“Your turn, Antonio,” I say, grabbing a handful of green icing and approaching him slowly. “Don’t think you’re getting out of this unscathed.”
“Alright, alright,” he concedes, holding up his hands defensively. “Just don’t get it in my hair, okay?”
“I make no promises,” I reply with a grin, gently smearing the frosting onto his cheek. The contact sends a thrill through me, and I can’t help but wonder if he feels the same electrifying connection.
As we continue to playfully exchange colorful smears of icing, our laughter fills the kitchen. It’s a moment of pure joy.
Antonio reaches for a bowl of blue icing and smears a streak across Hudson’s forehead. His grin broadens with each playful swipe, and it’s impossible not to feel the infectious joy of our sugar-fueled frenzy.
“Nice shot, Antonio!” I cheer, tossing him a wink. His responding smile sends butterflies fluttering in my stomach, and I find myself craving more of his playfulness.
At that moment, the oven timer dings, signaling the end of our confectionery combat. We gather around the oven like soldiers awaiting our victory spoils, anticipation hanging heavy in the air.
“Let’s see how these babies turned out,” Benedict says, grabbing a potholder and opening the oven door. The warmth of the oven washes over us, carrying with it the heavenly scent of our first round of freshly baked cookies.
“Ooooh, so delicious,” Olivia gushes, her eyes widening in delight as she reaches for a cookie.
“Just look at them, they’re still too hot!” I exclaim, transferring the cookies to some parchment paper to cool down.
For a moment, I feel like a little girl again, excited because Christmas is the most special day of the year, thanks to them.
