Her elbow brushes my chest.
My hand grazes the bare strip of wrist between her coat and glove.
We don’t look at each other, but the air between us snaps.
A camera flash goes off behind us.
Felix, grinning like he’s running for president, is now taking selfies with babies.
Audrey lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh, and before I can stop myself, I swipe away a streak of frosting on her cheek with my thumb.
Her eyes meet mine.
A long beat passes.
“I didn’t need your help.” Audrey breaks the moment with a shot of pure-grade defensiveness.
I should back off. Let it drop.
Instead, I smile—because the glare she levels at me is fierce and, frankly, adorable. “I know.”
That earns me a huff and an eyeroll.
But as she turns to get the next order ready, a fraction of a smile plays on her lips.
The magic feeling returns.
Audrey
“Unwrap me slowly.”Jack’s voice is all velvet and wicked suggestion.
But it isn’t the way he makes my already perversely named pies sound ten times as decadent or the past twenty minutes of our shared, non-stop action—bakery sales action—that causesmy brain to stutter.
It’s the lack of inventory.
The stark white bottom of the cooler burns into my eyes. “Damn.”
Jack’s charm falters. “What?”
I point to the empty box between us. “We’re out.”
The way he raises a single brow feels extremely judgmental. “Of Santa’s Secret?”
“That and…” With jerky movements I open and close the lid of every cooler I stocked and dragged over to Town Square before the tree lighting ceremony. “… everything else, save for two Jingle My Berries and one Fireside Fling.”
The Santa’s Secret customer—a young mom with a baby on one hip and a toddler on his tip-toes peering over the counter—thrusts her twenty dollar bill at Jack. “I’ll take all three!”
My unwanted booth partner, charm resurrected, takes the money and counts out her change while I hesitate to hand over the bag of whoopie pies.
“You sure?” I hate not giving the customer what they want.
But instead of disappointment, the woman beams. “Whatever Felix Jones ate, I’m eating.” She pockets her change and adds, “Plus, these two”—she nods to the toddler beside her before adjusting the baby more securely on her hip and reaching out with her free hand—“don’t care as long as it’s sugar.”
Once the pies have been handed over, Jack clears his throat and raises his arms. “Ladies and gentlemen of Hideaway Harbor,” he booms like he’s delivering a closing argument to the jury, “Making Whoopie is officially sold out.”
The responding groan from the people still in line mirrors the one inside my head.
I should feel triumphant right now. Instead, I feel like someone just handed me a participation trophy and whispered “Nice try” in my ear.
