Cassidy forced her smile not to slip. She knew everyone would be coming in to compare her chocolates to Rita’s. It came with the territory. Theoretically, she knew she could make chocolate with the best of them. But the locals in Maple Falls might have a very specific idea of what fine chocolate should taste like.
“Do you like candied pecans?” Mrs. Bishop asked, pulling her from her thoughts.
“Hm?”
“Candied pecans, dear. Do you like them?” Mrs. Bishop repeated impatiently.
“I’ve never made them, but I enjoy eating them,” she replied.
“Perfect. I’m making some for the holidays. I’ll drop off a jar.”
Cassidy started to protest. “Oh, you don’t have to do that…”
“Nonsense. You’re one of us now. Consider it your official welcome to Maple Falls,” Mrs. Bishop insisted.
Cassidy beamed—she was off to a great start.
She thought she might have a minute to plan out her Christmas window display after the ladies left, but customers kept on pouring in. Within minutes, she had a line almost out the door of folks who wanted to sample her hot cocoa. Some came for the freebie but didn’t mind when they’d missed the boat. They swooned over their cups and by the time the first batch of cocoa ran dry and the last croissant disappeared from the case, she was exhausted but buzzing.
Now, the shop had finally gone quiet. She took a breath and moved to the window display, restocking the rows of glossy truffles and peppermint bark, considering how to make the front look even more festive. Maybe garlands of cinnamon sticks and dried orange slices?
She glanced out the frosty front window—and froze. Across the street, Liam stood just outside his farm shop, sleeves rolled up, unloading crates of honey from his truck like they weighed nothing at all. His shirt clung to his shoulders, and his breath misted in the cold air as he adjusted the crates.
Cassidy tried—really tried—not to think about all the fun she could have with Liam and a jar of his famous hot honey, but her imagination wasn’t cooperating.
The front door jingled, snapping her out of her thoughts as Mr. Alders walked in.
She recognized him instantly. She’d seen the older man a few times at the hardware store when she was picking up bits for the café over the last few weeks, and had first assumed he worked there. He was always hovering near the front counter like he owned the place. But it turned out he was recently retired from the store and had nothing else to do.
“Good morning, Mr. Alders,” she called, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Would you like some hot spiced cocoa? Freshly made with my secret family recipe.”
“Hot cocoa?” he grumbled. “Rita never sold that.”
Her smile wavered for half a second before she pasted it back on.
Mr. Alders wandered further into the shop, eyes narrowed. He wasn’t admiring the displays so much as scrutinizing them—the shelves she’d added, all the glass jars, the shaped marshmallows, the splashes of color. The deeper he walked in, the deeper his scowl grew.
“Looking for a gift?” she asked brightly. “Something sweet for the season?”
“Got any maple fudge?” he asked. “Rita used to make the best maple fudge.”
“I’m afraid not. I have pralines made with Rita’s recipe, though. Would you like one of those?”
Before he could answer, Mr. Alders stumbled slightly, catching his foot on the box she had just brought down. It was overflowing with decorations—tinsel, twinkle lights, and the foam head of a half-assembled snowman peeking out the top.
He stared down at it like it had personally offended him.
“Don’t tell me you’re going all out with Christmas too.”
She laughed softly. “Guilty as charged. I’m decorating for the Christmas Light-Up Display Competition. Will you be coming to see the displays?”
“Not unless I’m dragged,” he muttered. “This whole town’s lost its mind. Christmas on every corner. All a man wants is a piece of fudge and a little peace and quiet.” He stood there, staring at her. Whatever he saw, he didn’t like.
His glare only made her smile brighter, her chin lifting a fraction higher.Not today, Mr. Alders. Not on my first day.
She had to look like a complete and total fool to him, hands on her hips, Christmas sweater lights flashing. But she was absolutely determined not to care. If the man didn’t like Christmas, he was in the wrong spot, talking to the wrong woman.
“Just let me know if you want to sample anything,” she said, daring him to find fault with her or her shop.
