Okay. Maybe not basking. I don’t remember ever having basked before. But I’d be working, and that’s as basking as I get. And the new client would be a great challenge. He’s a good actor. Has loads of potential. And his current agent was the one who reached out wanting to offer him up. Unusual in my line of business, but his agent is relatively new and doesn’t think she has the resources and connections to do her client justice. Got to respect that.
“Oh. My. God.” Amanda elbows me hard in the ribs. “Look.” She points toward the other side of the door, where the wall of customers in front of us had been blocking the view.
“Is that a dog?”
It’s a rhetorical question—anyone can see the lump of fur is indeed a dog—but I’m confused as to why it’s lying in a snowbank directly in front of a bakery entrance and no one in line before us mentioned it. “Is it dead?”
Just then, the large animal lifts its head, looks at me, and, as if finding me just as unappealing as I find this small-town Christmas-time excursion, flops back down onto its snow pillow.
Amanda rolls her eyes. “I was talking aboutthat.” She jabs her finger again, this time clearly pointing at a foldable chalkboard sign sitting behind the dog. “Isn’t that the most amazing thing you’ve ever seen?”
Fearing another jab, I move out of elbow range—and closer to the warm air escaping the bakery—and read the handwritten menu, festooned with doodled ornaments and candy canes.
Hot Cocoa & Chill:Decadent chocolate cakes wrapped around marshmallow fluff and tiny chocolate bits.Pairs well with a snuggle and absolutely nothing else on.
Stuff My Stocking:Gingerbread cakes filled with silky eggnog cream and a cinnamon kick. This one finishes fast.Better go for round two.
Jingle My Berries:Spiced vanilla cake with cranberry-orange cream cheese filling.Tangy, tingly, and totally unexpected—like a holiday hookup with an ex.
Dasher’s Midnight Ride:Espresso-dark chocolate cake + mocha cream with a peppermint finish.Stays up late. Rides hard. Leaves you breathless.
Kiss Me Under the Whoopie:White chocolate cakes hugging raspberry mascarpone cream.One bite and you’ll be puckered up and emotionally compromised.
Fireside Fling:Toasted s’mores whoopie with graham cracker cake and gooey marshmallow-chocolate swirl.Just the right amount of sticky.
Unwrap Me Slowly:Chocolate cake with hazelnut crème, dipped in gold luster dust.Looks classy. Tastes filthy.
The sign and menu are pure Christmas: quaint, clever, and hilariously perverse. Much like the bakery’s name.
The branding is on point.
And if I wasn’t exhausted, grumpy, and—as my whoopie pie-loving client claims—lonely, I’d agree with her that it’s amazing.
But Iamall of those things. So I do not agree.
Instead, rubbing my sore ribs, I lean back against the painted shingle siding, inhale the warm air that smells like sugar, vanilla, and something dangerously nostalgic, and embrace my inner petulant child.
“If you think a baker who’s mistaken a perverted sense of humor for originality isamazing,then yeah. Sure. It’s amazing.” I nearly give myself a migraine from the force of my eye roll. “Though I find it hard to believe that you, an international award-winning actress, can be so easily charmed.”
For the first time since we arrived, Amanda’s smile slips. “It’s because I’ve seen so much of that supposed ‘Hollywood magic’”—she air quotes, though with her mittens it looks like puppet theater—“that I can appreciate something real when I see it.” She attempts to cross her arms but fails thanks to the coat. With a huff, she gestures toward the stray dog. “Hideaway Harbor is charming. And you’d agree if you weren’t being such a Scrooge.”
Feeling a little guilty for raining on her small-town parade—but not guilty enough to get over myself—I drop my head against the siding and close my eyes. “You saycharming,” I grumble. “I sayaggressively festive.”
“Is that so?” The voice cuts in—cool, unimpressed, and in direct opposition to the warm wave of air that follows it.
I open my eyes just as the bakery door swings wide, andshesteps out.
Dark hair pulled into a barely-contained bun. A smudge of cocoa on one cheek like war paint. A cranberry apron dusted in flour. Slip-resistant Crocs to match adorned with Christmas charms. And despite the holiday hue of herapron and the low-fi holiday music drifting out behind her, the woman herself looks anything but merry.
“Thank you for sharing your”—she gives me a slow, unimpressed once-over—“uniqueperspective on the town’s holiday décor.” Her voice is honeyed with just enough bite to qualify as legally passive-aggressive.
She steps fully onto the stoop, bakery box balanced on one palm, and offers what looks like a piece of cake to the stray dog—who perks up instantly, tail wagging like she just offered him a winning lottery ticket.
She tosses the treat. He catches it. Swallows. Trots away.
Then she turns to Amanda, and everything about her face softens.
“You must be Amanda Willis.”
