Mia’s glare promises vengeance.
A few customers chuckle, the tension softening, until Eileen Burrows—town matchmaker and owner of next door’s Love at First Sip—claps her hands like she’s just been handed a Hallmark Christmas plot on a silver tray.
“Instead of a lawyer, I could help find her a lady friend instead.”
Alice groans. “Eileen.”
“What?” Eileen shrugs. “It’s the season of giving. And frankly, those Hollywood types would be lucky to link up with a Hideaway local.” She eyes me over the top of her latte like I’m a box of cookies she just remembered she left on the shelf. “Bring them down to earth to what really matters.”
“I’m not gay.” I slide the back of the display case closed on a sigh.
Part of me is flattered—being referred to as a local means more than I want to admit. But another part is irked it’s taken Eileen two whole years to include me in her matchmaking mayhem.
At first, I assumed her lack of interest in my dating life was because I was new to town. But then as months turned into years, I worried it was something else.
Like maybe she thought I was too prickly. Too controlling. Too... something that had my love life just as stagnant as it had been in New York City.
Now I’m wondering what I could’ve said—or done—that made her think I’m not in the market. Or at least, not in the market fora man.
Eileen just smiles, cat-who-got-the-canary style. “I know.”
Before I can press her on that, the front bell chimes again, the warm scent of cinnamon and cocoa colliding with a gust of cold air as another customer squeezes inside before anyone has left.
I close my eyes for a second and breathe it all in. Holiday Whoopie Day. My busiest, most chaotic, most profitable day of the year.
IfI can keep the line moving.
IfI can turn over customers before they freeze to death outside and give up.
Ifa movie star and her fancy lawyer don’t walk inside and blow the whole system to hell.
Mia whispers something about helping Amanda skip the line. Hudson’s talking about running interference. Eileen’s leaning toward the window like she’s already planning matching flannel pajamas.
Nope. Not happening.
If Amanda Willis walks into this bakery, she’ll be swarmed.
Which means chaos.
Which means delays.
Which means a full-on holiday meltdown.
Time to save us all.
I grab a fresh box, fill it with an assortment of crowd favorites—Hot Cocoa & Chill, Jingle My Berries, Fa-La-La-La-Filled—and head for the door.
MISTRIAL
Jack
I’m about to call off the baked-goods excursion in the name of testicle safety when the guy at the front of the line sneaks inside without waiting for someone to exit.
The door doesn’t fully close behind him, his puffer jacket sticking out over the threshold.
Something I’m sure the owner—who’s probably paying astronomical prices to heat the place—wouldn’t be too pleased about. But I am. The blast of heat is the first welcome bit of ambiance this town has given me.
If I hadn’t listened to that pesky little voice inside my head that keeps telling me not to take on more clients, I’d be basking in California sunshine and having sushi and sake lunch meetings.
