No man that smug,buttoned-up, and judgmental has any right being that good-looking. Especially not while standing in front ofmyshop, radiating disdain and disapproval like a space heater set tocondescend.
I should’ve ignored him. Or snapped. Or handed him a whoopie pie and smiled while I told him to go to hell.
Instead, I got distracted. Lost my moment.
No picture with Amanda. No proof of my brush with fame.
And now I’m back inside Making Whoopie, facing down a bakery full of nosy locals who promised not to bombard the celebrity outside once I promised them gossip and a free pastry.
And while I may regret my too-strong reaction to the Burberry Grinch, I regret not staying outside a little longer to cool off even more. Because the second I step inside, I’m met by a press pool of whoopie pie enthusiasts turned amateur tabloid reporters.
—“Was she nice?”
—“Did she hug you?”
—“What was her favorite pie?”
—“Did she thank you?”
They lean in, a dozen heads bobbing in anticipation.
I spot Hudson at the back, rubbing his stomach like he just got elbowed.
Mia—phone now miraculously reclaimed from Hudson—is practically vibrating next to the window display. “Well?”
“We stayed put, just like you asked,” Alice reminds me, arms crossed but eyes twinkling.
I inhale a deep, sugar-scented breath.Fake it till you bake it.
Making my way behind the counter, I rub my arms to shake off the lingering winter chill from standing outside sans coat. “Amanda Willis is absolutely lovely.” I grab a tray of my experimental flavored pies.
“Shelookslovely,” Eileen murmurs, still gazing longingly out the window.
“Sheislovely,” I confirm, rounding the counter again and luring them toward the exit like one might a retriever with a biscuit. “Polite. Friendly. Effortlessly gracious.” And genuinely enthusiastic about her free box of whoopie pies—which, frankly, is how I judge a person’s character.
If Amanda Willis is even half as charming with the rest of the town as she was with me, Hideaway Harbor is going to stampede its way to that tree lighting tomorrow night.
My brain’s already racing.
Can I bake enough extras to do a last-minute pop-up at the event?
Do I have enough boxes? Labels? Twine? Sprinkles?
Can Imakethe time?
I’m already running low on sleep thanks to last night’s window display marathon and this morning’s monster bake for the holiday flavor reveal.
But if I do pull it off—and if Isomehowmanage to get a picture of Amanda holding one of my whoopie pies? That’s gold.
I know from my past job at the Ritz that a good post with the right hashtags could turn my respectable one thousand followers into something closer to... relevant.
Relevant enough to comfortably afford an assistant.IfI could admit to myself that I need one.
“Did she say where she was going next?” Eileen asks, still holding her whoopie pie like it’s a microphone.
I ignore the question and redirect.
“That’s a new flavor combination I’ve been working on.” I nod at the treat in her hand as the others swarm in and pluck theirs from the tray. “Spiced-vanilla cake with orange-cranberry buttercream and edible pine needle sprinkles.”
