"Out, out, out, Alec! Out! Bad and naughty husbands don't get peppermint cookies!"

One thing that you never would have suspected Alec Hardy as possessing was a sweet tooth. And yet, there he was, fingers in your cookie dough, stealing bits and pieces to nibble on even though he knew darn well that there were raw eggs and flour in it, putting him at risk for salmonella and E.coli.

"Oh, love, come on," he replied, wrapping his arms around you from behind. "It's Christmas. And ye know I love yer food..."

You scowled at him, turned around, and swatted at his chest.

"That doesn't give you the right to come and pinch bits of my cookie dough. You'll get yourself sick!"

He kissed you, and you smelled alcohol on his breath. Ah. So he was a little tipsy. That did explain why he seemed so... loose.

"I don't care, love. That's why we have medicine and doctors. I'll be fiiiiiiine."

"Be that as it may, you've also contaminated my cookie dough. I was going to bring that to work for my colleagues."

"Well, I suppose you'll just have to make more then, won't you?" he gave you that sweet, rare smile that only you and Daisy seemed to be able to coax out of him, and you felt yourself softening against your will.

"Still want to kick me out of your kitchen?"