My phone buzzes again. The same name. Amanda watches me watch it. Her mouth softens, a small, private smile meant for me and later—if I know Amanda—weaponized for someone else’s benefit.
I slide the phone back into my pocket.
“Tell Audrey we’re grateful,” Lucy says, wiping the counter with efficient swipes. “She keeps this place sweet.”
“Yes.” Pride sparks through me, quiet but fierce. “That she does.” I head for the door before I stay too long or say too much. The bell jingles overhead. The cold nips my face. The dirty chai warms my palms and something in my chest I’ve avoided touching for years.
Next door, the bakery windows glow. Audrey will have her hair twisted up with a pencil stuck through it, lips pursed as she counts boxes, foot tapping to music only she hears. She’ll roll her eyes when I hand her the chai and then drink half in one go. She’ll tell me she’s not a real Hidie, that she’s just the whoopie pie girl, that the town humors her.
And I’ll think of Eileen clapping, of Lucy’s soft voice, of the way people line up for a taste of what Audrey made and leave with more than sugar on their tongues. I’ll think of chowder days and cannoli whoopies and adult-store glitter, of a calendar full of appreciation for everything under the winter sun except the thing that quietly holds them together.
I’ll think:Fine. Then we’ll givethem a reason.
Behind me, Eileen’s laugh peals like a bell. Amanda calls my name, a question tucked inside it. I lift the cup in a wave without turning back and step into the snow with a plan I’m not ready to say out loud and a mouth that tastes faintly of peppermint and trouble.
STAGED
Audrey
The bells in the church tower chime seven when I step out into the December night, tugging my scarf tighter around my neck. The streets glimmer under strands of twinkling lights draped over awnings, wreaths wired onto shop doors. My fellow Hidies have formed groups along Main Street—laughing, knitted hats bobbing, mittens curled around steaming cups—looking woven right into the festive spirit that floats on the chilly air. And me? I feel like a Christmas cookie someone forgot in the oven—overbaked, brittle, barely held together by sugar.
It’s the last Saturday before Christmas Eve, which in bakery terms is total war. The ovens never stopped, timers shrieked every three minutes, and I shuffled between trays until my calves burned like I’d run a marathon in my Crocs.By close, condensation ghosted the front case, my apron wore a map of cocoa smudges, and my hair smelled permanently of gingerbread.
Jack had been gone all day—off with Amanda at the Santa Fun Run, handing out prizes, doing whatever else celebrity-adjacent people do when they’re charming a crowd. When he’d asked if I’d be fine without him, I laughed, confident in my ability to handle the bakery solo. But somewhere between the first latte order and the mid-morning rush, I realized just how much I’d started to rely on him.
He was supposed to be temporary, a guest star in my bakery life, his main job to handle the legal stuff interrupting my holiday rush. But between the sacks of flour he hauled, the floors he swept, and the way he charmed the line with that easy grin, he’d slipped into the role of partner-in-crime so smoothly that his absence today left me floundering.
And that scares me more than the cease and desist.
My mother relied on a man, and when he left, it was up to her to pick up the pieces. I’ve heard that story enough times to taste the bitterness. Forget my mother lamenting me leaving the Ritz for small-town Hideaway Harbor—the true metaphorical stab to her heart would be if I ended up heartbroken and with my business in trouble because of it.
I cut across Main Street toward the square where the caroling will start, my boots crunching on salted sidewalks. Every lamppost is wrapped in red ribbon and fir boughs, glittered ribbons glowing against the night. Windows fog with bodies and laughter; a lot of Main Street’s shop doorsstill chime with customers; the scent of chowder, cocoa, and fried dough threads the air.
Normally, this walk fills me with something close to joy—my reminder that I traded Manhattan chaos for small-town magic. Tonight, the lights feel brighter than necessary, the local chatter a shade too loud. Tonight it feels like a gauntlet.
Is this what Jack meant when he described Hideaway’s decorations as aggressively festive?
I pause, the thought making me wonder if, instead of small-town charm rubbing off on Jack, I’ve let his city edge rub off on me.
More likely, though, I’m just plain grumpy—my mood a mirror of my body. My shoulders ache from hauling the ingredient bags Jack used to grab without asking; my fingers sting from washing between piping cream and stabbing cash-register buttons—buttons he spent the past weeks tapping while I worked in rare, blissful peace.
Rolling my shoulders, I shake off the aches, along with the thoughts, and keep moving.
“Did you see them this morning? Arm in arm at the finish line.” A voice floats over the wind, sharp as peppermint.
I glance left. Two women stand outside Hideaway Treasures, their shopping bags dangling like ornaments, heads bent close under knitted hats. Their voices cut through the night like gossip always does—too loud, too knowing.
“With her hair, she looked like a walking candy cane, grinning up at Amanda Willis like the celebrity had hung the moon,” the taller one says. “Ridiculous, really. I always thought she was smart enough to know better.”
“Mm.” The other tugs her mitten. “She’s just fooling herself. That actress will be gone after New Year’s. They always are. And all she’ll be left with is her broken heart. She should hold back—enjoy her Hollywood crush for what it is. A fling.”
Their laughter bubbles into the air, light and careless. They shift shopping bags and keep talking, already hungry for their next bite of someone else’s life, but I’m frozen mid-step.
Because every word, every smug little chuckle, lands squarely in my chest.
I know they’re talking about Portia—the one person I’m brave enough to call a friend here in Hideaway. And if I scroll back over the times I’ve seen her these hectic weeks, I realize she’s never looked happier than when Amanda is near—her expressions lighting up, more chromatic than the streaks in her hair.
And Amanda, whom I’ve also come to know thanks to Jack, is always leaning close to her, a conspirator at the candy counter, as if the two of them share some secret. It was sweet. Lovely. The kind of happiness that makes strangers smile. And yet now, apparently, laughable to the town gossips.
