The barista’s eyes go wide. “Audrey,” she breathes, like it’s an answer to prayer.
Eileen claps, then mashes my arms to my side with a hug. “Of course. That girl thinks of everything.”
“She does.” Something in me straightens—that possessive ribbon I pretend I don’t carry around tightening under my ribs. Because this is what Audrey never sees: the way people’s voices soften when they say her name. The gratitude that slides into the conversation when they mention the box she sent to the school fundraiser, the late-night batch she whipped up for a wake, the way she remembered that Mrs. Callahan’s husband prefers marshmallow fluff in his peppermint whoopie because he lost his dentures lastsummer and icing is a war zone—all things locals have stopped to tell me about during my stay in Hideaway.
The line moves. Cup after cup topped with a swirl of whipped cream and crushed candy cane. Amanda peels off to chat with the barista—apparently having already met them—angling for information from the frazzled barista about Lucy, the regular barista’s relationship with a man named Enzo.
I give Eileen Audrey’s dirty chai order to mark on a cup, then lean against the end of the bar and watch the town do what the town does—bump shoulders, trade gossip, shove cookies into mittened hands, and exclaim happiness over Audrey’s thoughtful mini pies.
Yesterday was the cornbread pies for Chowder House Rules, before that, she rolled out Take the Gun, Leave the Cannoli for Little Italy—a pistachio-cannoli whoopie that made grown men whimper—and priced it at cost so the deli could make the margin. They worked so well, Audrey’s currently making them more.
And the week before that, she dropped off a tray at The Perfect Package—this town’s least subtle adult store—because they were running a couples’ workshop, and she thought a red velvet whoopie with edible glitter might be “on theme.”
And then it hits me.Of course.
They have a day for chowder. A day for cornbread. A day for wool socks. If Hideaway can sanctify footwear, it can sanctify its state treat—its unofficial love language, courtesy of the woman who’s been quietly stitching this town together with sugar and butter for two years.
Audrey calls herself an outsider. And she means it.Believes it. Meanwhile, the town has already tattooed her on its heart.
My phone buzzes. Hollywood rings at a different frequency; I swear I can hear it in my bones before the screen lights up. I glance down at the name. The agent who’s been circling me for a week, foaming at the mouth for me to sign her client. Big. Bankable. Press release kind of big.
Amanda’s back at my shoulder before I can decide if I’m going to answer. Her eyes flick to the screen, a magpie for shiny names. One brow climbs.
I let it buzz out. Silence hums in the space it leaves, surprising as snow in August. Not relief, exactly. More… alignment. As if all the pieces that have been wiggling loose finally click.
“Who was that?” she asks, but she already knows.
“Agent.” I take a swallow of a sample peppermint mocha, my sinuses burning in candy cane protest. “The one who wants me to take on her client, Scott Evans.”
Amanda’s mouth actually falls open a fraction. She repeats the name low and quick, like she doesn’t want to spook the possibility. “You just—didn’t pick up?”
I scan the room until Eileen’s headband appears again, bobbing like a buoy. “Eileen,” I call, and she beelines as if I’ve offered her state secrets and a pony.
Amanda pinches my sleeve. “Jack.”
“I need your help with something,” I tell Eileen, ignoring Amanda’s blatant curiosity.
Eileen leans in. “What kind of help? Planning? Baking? Discreet meddling? Overt meddling disguised as charity?”
“Something along those lines.” I nod at the peppermint-chanting crowd who just entered seeking warmth and drinks. “I’ll come by after close.” My voice drops, uncharacteristically earnest. “And I want it to be a surprise.”
She makes the kind of expression people make at kittens and baby showers. “A surprise.” Her voice is reverent as if invoking the Holy Ghost. “We do adore surprises here in Hideaway.”
Amanda bumps my shoulder, reminding me of her presence. “You’re going to tell me what the surprise is?”
I take another sip of peppermint, the whipped cream on top tickling my nose. “Not unless you want to tell me how you came to admire the local candymaker’s lollipops.”
She tries to glare through a smile. Fails. “I would if you told me how sweet Audrey’s pies are.”
I snort into the leftover whipped cream in my cup. “Good one.”
Lucy slides a to-go cup across the bar with Audrey’s name scribbled on the side decorated with hearts. “Dirty chai.” She winks. “Extra filthy.”
Eileen fans herself. “I don’t know what that means, but I’m both scandalized and delighted.”
I cradle the cup, warmth seeping into my fingers, sugar noise still buzzing in my ears. Outside, flakes thicken. Inside, a chorus of “Deck the Halls” tries to decide on a key and fails with gusto. The tray of pairing whoopie pies is half gone already, crumbs like confetti across the bar.
This is not my world, not the way LA was—contracts and cameras and conversations that always tilt toward leverage. But it’s notnotmy world either. It’s a place where someone can march into a coffee shop with a tray of free dessert because it’ll make their neighbors happy, where anentire town will line up to celebrate a flavored latte like it’s a coronation, where a man who has been very good at being alone can stand in a crowd and imagine being part of the noise instead of apart from it.
