Disregarding the lack of sleep and the unfamiliar weather, there’s something about Hideaway Harbor that scrapes up old memories like frost off a windshield—memories from my early childhood. Before my parents died.
The smell of pine. The crunch of salt underfoot. People hustling down the street, bundled up, arms full of Christmas purchases. Small-town stuff I remember from a time I’ve spent most of my life trying to forget.
Thanks to Felix’s mom Sofia taking me in when I wasten, I got to rewrite the script. Make new memories. New traditions.
Californian memories like faux Christmas trees that may not smell but never die and women rollerblading by the beach in red bikinis trimmed in white fur. And Portuguese traditions like Sofia’s honey-spiced cookies served with warm cinnamon milk.
Except this year, Sofia and Felix are spending the holidays with Elizabeth’s family.
Elizabeth—Felix’s fiancée, and the best thing that’s ever happened to him.
Worst thing that’s ever happened to me, though.
I shake off the churlish thought, blow on my hands, and pretend it helps. Then, like I’m not actively plotting my escape to the nearest heat source, I deadpan into Amanda’s heartfelt gaze, “I admit nothing. Except early-stage frostbite.”
Audrey
The scentof sugar and cocoa wraps around me like an old friend as I pace behind the counter, trying to pretend I have full control over my bakery right now.
—“She’s so down-to-earth looking.”
—“If she’s had work done,you can’t tell.”
—“I can’t believe Hideaway has an Oscar winner in town for the holidays!”
My customers are in full gossip mode, huddled like kids plotting their Christmas lists, buzzing with excitement and completely oblivious to the rising panic crawling up the back of my neck.
“I can’t believe it’s really her.”
Mia Keye, photographer for the local paper,The Almanac, has her eyes glued to what she can see of movie star Amanda Willis through the window display—past the carefully arranged tower of whoopie pies and the garland-tangled reindeer I spent all night positioning for today’s holiday flavor launch.
She glances down at her hands—latte in one, whoopie pie in the other—like she's cursing herself for not bringing her camera, seeing as this is the biggest celebrity scoop Hideaway’s had all year.
“She’s even prettier in person,” Hudson Locke, fireman and frequent public nuisance, mumbles around a mouthful of whoopie pie. A whoopie pie from the order he just purchased—and is still standing here eating and gawking. He’s large enough to block the counter for two people, and until he leaves, I can’t let in the next round of customers, celebrity or not.
I shake off the thought that an assistant would be nice and keep alternating between counter service and bakery work. This past fall, looking over the numbers, I convinced myself I could handle the holiday season alone. That I didn’t need extra help. By saving money on staff, I could afford more advertising. And more advertising meant more reach. More reach meant more success.
Success I’d very much like my number-driven mother to notice so she can finally stop sighing dramatically whenever someone mentions my “little bakery” in “that little town” I moved to two years ago. Because once I ensure Making Whoopie’s success, I can stop feeling guilty about why I really left my near celebrity-level status as New York City Ritz Carlton’s foremost pastry chef for small-town entrepreneurship in Hideaway.
Mia snorts. “Amanda Willis wouldn’t be interested in any of your equipment, Hudson.” She gestures at his pants with her pie hand. “She came out as gay last year.”
Hudson shrugs, unfazed. “Then who’s the guy with her?”
Every head swivels toward the window like it’s choreographed.
“That’s her lawyer.” Mia lowers her voice. “I heard from the mayor he’d be coming with her.”
A hush falls over the bakery. Not the good kind. The kind people usually reserve for car crashes or funerals.
Hideaway Harbor prides itself on welcoming outsiders with mittens and maple syrup—but if there’s one group this town collectively mistrusts, it’s lawyers. No one says it out loud, but everyone knows we take more pride in not having one than we do in winning the sock-running championship.
And it doesn’t help that the guy standing stiffly next to Amanda in his designer coat has a whole “I don’t belong here” vibe.
I give up on trying to serve the next customer—everyone’s too focused on the sidewalk—and move to pull a tray of fresh pies off the trolley to restock the display.
“Poor girl,” Alice Cassidy, local librarian, murmurs from her spot near the door. “Amanda probably brought him tofend off paparazzi. She doesn’t know we’d never do anything invasive.”
Hudson glances at Mia, who’s now digging in her coat pocket and coming out with her phone. “Exactly.” He plucks it out of her hand just as she swipes the camera app open. “We don’t want to run her out of town.”
