And then—because apparently tonight needed a final boss level of absurdity—I spot Amanda Willis’ snobby lawyer shove a disturbingly festive hairless cat into Felix’s arms like it’s a cursed fruitcake before shouldering his way into the booth.
Mybooth.
He takes the ten-dollar bill from the customer’s hand. “Coming right up.”
But it’s not coming right up. Because—what the actual fuck?
“Excuse me.” Hands on my puffer-covered hips, I glare at the man invading both my personal and professional space. “Just who do you think you are to?—”
“Jack Lourd.” He pops open the cash box behind the counter and starts counting out change. “Nice to meet you.”
I blink. “What—no—you can’t just?—”
“That’s two Santa’s Cream-Filled Secrets.” He scans the labeled coolers like he owns the place. “I’d help with pie duty, but I’m guessing you know where everything is. This”—he gestures to the cash—“I can handle.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me off again.
“And don’t worry, I’m not going to steal your money.”
“Well how do I?—”
He nods toward Felix, now balancing the cat carrier against his chest and waving with his whoopie pie–holding hand. “He’s my reference.”
I make a strangled noise—equal parts fury and confusion.
How did this man—this human embodiment of condescension—wearing cologne that probably costs more than my beloved KitchenAid mixer—end up surrounded bysuch nice people?
Nice, celebrity, whoopie pie-endorsing people.
When a customer barks their order and hands me my booth sign, which has once again face-planted into the snow, I decide to both answer that question and verbally castrateJack Lourdlater.
Right now? Damage control.
Grabbing two SCFS pies, I bag them just as Felix calls out to the crowd, “Let’s form a line, folks! I’ll take a selfie with everyone while you wait!”
And just like that… order.
Sort of.
The lawyer—Jack—and I don’t speak again, but we move like gears in the same machine.
And I hate that he’s good at it.
Too good for someone who wore cashmere and judgment to my bakery like it was a courtroom.
He’s calm. Efficient. And just charming enough to get away with it. Which, frankly, makes me want to slap a pie box over his perfect hair.
Ten minutes later, he hands off the last Oh, Tannenbaumto a teenager who squeal-screams “ICONIC!” and runs off to get her selfie with Felix. A selfie I’m hoping she tags both Felix and Making Whoopie in.
Elizabeth—now juggling the disgruntled cat and playing pseudo-photographer—catches my eye and smiles like this is all perfectly normal.
Between the two celebrities —Amanda has joined Felix in full selfie mode—the mob-like energy of the crowd, and the fact that we’re about to sell out of whoopie pies,noneof this is normal.
And yet, somehow, it’s the lawyer that bothers me most.
Not because he’s suddenly helpful and far too comfortable in a space he does not belong in... but because now I’m wondering just where the grinch from yesterday went.
Becausethisman—the one who just made a sixty-year-old, happily married womantitterwhile handing her a Hot Cocoa & Chill—smells like cedar and something luxurious and warm.
