Mia takes a huge bite and moans audibly.
Hudson turns a disturbing shade of red at the sound.
Alice moves her bite to the side of her cheek, chipmunk-style. “Divine as always, Audrey.”
Feeling unreasonably pleased, I decide right then that the new flavor will be exclusive to tomorrow night’s tree lighting. The tree lighting I will make time for.
My mind's already spinning with potential hashtags I don’t have time to create.
“I directed Amanda to Love at First Sip,” I announce loudly when no one shows any interest in heading for the door. “Said she wanted a coffee.”
Eileen gasps—hands to heart, eyes wide. “Hercoffee order!”
Alice groans. “Oh no.”
“Yes!” Eileen spins toward her like a woman reborn. “Her coffee order will tell meeverythingI need to know about what kind of woman she likes.”
Mia laughs. “I bet she orders an oat milk latte with fake sugar.”
“Nah, something off-menu.” Hudson strokes his stubbledjaw with one hand and waves his bag of pies with the other. “I bet my Jingle My Berries whoopie pie that she orders a green tea matcha chai with kombucha or something equally Californian and confusing.”
Eileen pushes through the crowd like a woman on a caffeinated mission. “Only one way to find out!”
The bell over the door chimes like a starting pistol.
Bets forgotten, the herd mobilizes—coats zipping, boots stomping, a flurry of goodbyes flung in the air as the peanut gallery evacuates in pursuit of coffee-based matchmaking intel.
And when the last one exits, I’m left with the customers I haven’t served and a line that’sfinallymoving again.
In no time, the shop is full, the pies are selling, and the chaos feels... good.
Like possibility.
Like momentum.
Likemaybe, just maybe, Making Whoopie is about to have its moment.
But as I fill new orders and replenish the display cases with trays of pies from the racks, my mind reels with all that I need to get together if I intend to make that moment happen. More pies. Social media posts. More pies. Signage.More. Pies.
I hand another customer their box and smile through the stress.
I’ll figure it out. I always do.
Still, when a blond woman moves past the front window, reminding me of Amanda, a pang hits low and sharp.
I should’ve taken that photo when she was right there.
Not for clout. Not even for the algorithm. Not even for my mother.
Just for me.
But I didn’t. Because I got flustered.
By a lawyer. A grinch. And a man my mother would absolutely adore with or without the law degree.
The very opposite of what I’m looking for. What I moved here for.
IfI was ready to admit it.
