Felix raises his hands but begins walking backward. “I need a break. You don’t want me throwing my back out before filming starts next month, do you?”
“I—”
Mike emits a sound that can only be described as a death rattle, followed by a violent shiver.
“Fuck.” I pull him back into my coat.
But not fast enough because by the time I look up, Felix and Elizabeth are out of arm’s reach, blending into the crowd—leaving me alone with a velociraptor in cat form clinging to my chest and a rising sense of pastry-related dread.
“Bring me something!” I call after them.
Felix doesn’t turn. Just lifts a hand. “We’ll bring you your dignity if we find it!”
I sigh. The crowd is blissfully lost in the holiday spirit. Mike Hunt farts.
In seconds, the stench has smothered all sense of holiday magic.
Typical.
Stalking across the square, I lock eyes on the Making Whoopie booth near the stage, where my so-called friends are now chatting with its owner.
I’m going over there to return the cat.
That’s it.
My impatience has absolutely nothing to do with the sarcastic baker who may or may not sell me a mistletoe-laced whoopie pie, and who is now laughing at something Felix just said.
Definitely not.
Just cat logistics.
Totally.
My new inner voice is annoyingly smug.
Audrey
In the past forty-eight hours,I’ve handed whoopie pies to two movie stars, and not once have I had time to process—let alone document—it.
Because when you own your own bakery and make the insane decision to also operate a booth outside of normal business hours—during the holidays—you forfeit things like sleep, sanity, and the ability to feel your toes after sunset.
I hand a Stuff My Stocking pie to Felix Jones and the tree-lighting-exclusive Oh, Tannenbaum to his gorgeous fiancée, both of whom smile at me like we’re old friends.
Then the crowd hits.
Not drifts in.Hits.
The real-life celebrity endorsement slams into my booth like a peppermint-scented avalanche I was absolutely not prepared to ride.
Suddenly I’m boxed in by flannel and fleece and frantic voices.
“Two Santa’s Cream-Filled Secrets!”
“One Hot Cocoa & Chill!”
“I’ll have whatever Felix Jones ordered!”
My head’s spinning, my cooler’s cracked open, and I’m one order away from a full mental spiral when one of the three people wedged against the front of my booth waves a ten-dollar bill at me like I’m giving away more than just baked goods.
