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Somehow, as if my imagination wouldn’t dare suggest an inaccurate rendering of what the inside might contain, I always snapped awake before I could open the door. That was how I knew I wasn’t asleep. Not only was the wind’s bite sharper than it ever was in my dreams, but when the real estate agent turned the key in one deft motion and pushed, the door to the wee shop swung right open.

My wee shop. As of this morning. When I’d signed the papers at her office, groggy from a night spent tossing and turning, tormenting myself over this decision. Did that make the contract legally binding? Maybe it wasn’t too late to back out of this preposterous plan and go back to Massachusetts, figurative tail tucked between my legs, to eat crow and beg my mother to let me move back in until I got my feet back under me.

Common wisdom dictated that the best place to recover from a gnarly divorce was safe at home, surrounded by the family and friends who knew you best. Not on the other side of the world in a town filled with strangers you could barely understand.

Common wisdom certainly didn’t recommend purchasing a quaint little shop in an adorable Scottish coastal town just because its “for sale” sign flapping in the wind caught the attention of the part of you that had once dreamed of owning one just like it.

The impulsive decision to drop the bulk of what had been awarded to me in the divorce on the small shop was the first thing I’d ever done without first consulting my mother or my now ex-husband.

My head was still spinning.

My stomach had joined it a few hours before the sun had made its first attempt of the day to peek through the thick Scottish clouds.

For the umpteenth time since I’d dragged myself out of bed, my hand drifted to the phone in my pocket. Before I could remind myself yet again that I no longer had the right to text the only other person I wanted to share this with, Mac turned to see why I wasn’t following him and the real estate agent.

“It’s too late to back out now! Get in here, already!” he hissed, waving me into the shop.

I didn’t bother asking how he knew what I was thinking. Aside from our uncanny twin bond that let him read me better than anyone else, we’d just spent two weeks traipsing through Scotland, sharing close quarters to save money, debating ad nauseam what I should do with my life now that my future had been completely derailed.

Sticking my tongue out at him, I stepped into the store and froze on the threshold.

My imagination had been right to abstain. Nothing I dreamed up could have lived up to what I was seeing.

As soon as she’d extricated herself from her tiny hunter-green vintage MINI, the real estate agent had launched into a fast-paced diatribe about the shop, barely pausing long enough to tell us she only had fifteen minutes before she had to be at another appointment across town.

Before we even reached the shop’s entrance, we’d heard about what would thrive in the large planters to the left and right of the entrance, how the shop had been some shade of thistle-blue for over 200 years, and how the glass panes in the door’s window were original to the building and therefore impossible to replace if any of them broke. If the agent had been in any way bothered by the fall wind blowing off the water and across the cobbled street, she hadn’t let on.

The quaint shop hadn’t appeared this run-down from the outside, nor had the listing photos depicted what looked like the aftermath of a frat of raccoons enjoying a three-week bender. But it all paled in comparison to everything the photos had failed to capture.

The side walls were floor-to-ceiling whitewashed brick, some of which jutted out at irregular intervals like little shelves. Behind the imposing solid-wood counter, ancient-looking built-in cubbies spanned the back wall from floor to ceiling. Gaping cracks in the linoleum revealed glimpses of a beautiful wood floor we might find once we tore it up. A short flight of stairs between the cubbies and the right wall led to what appeared to be a small back room.

As I’d expected, the place was a mess and would require elbow grease to restore it to its former beauty, but instead of being cowed by the enormity of the task, I couldn’t wait to roll up my sleeves and dive in. I could so clearly picture how it would look when we were done, I kept catching glimpses of the restored store out of the corners of my eyes.

“And that is the kitchen,” the real estate agent said in the same clipped, no-nonsense tone she’d used to point out the other shop features as she gestured at an unassuming door to the side of the built-in cubbies behind the shop counter.

My heart thumped as I picked my way through the debris scattered across the floor.

The real estate listing photos hadn’t shown a kitchen, nor had it come up during the negotiations.

To be fair, she might well have described the kitchen at length, but all I’d heard was gobbledygook. As beautiful as the Scottish accent was, it was going to take me a hot minute to understand people no matter how enthusiastically they smiled and gestured.

The agent threw open the door and stepped out of the way to let me peer into the utility kitchen.

A wee shop with a wee kitchen… Could I maybe…? An ember of hope flared to life deep in the recesses of my brain where dreams I’d once harbored were tucked away.

The cacophony of scornful voices that erupted in my head—my mother’s derision at the heart of the chorus—distracted me from the pang of disappointment as I stepped into the small bare-boned room.

There you go again with your ridiculous notions, sweetheart. You need to get your head out of the clouds and find yourself a⁠—

I know. I know, I grumbled to myself, cutting off the internal voice that never stayed silent for long. Cookie decorating is a hobby, not a practical way to support myself now that I’m on my own.

Certainly not in a kitchen that had more in common with a first-apartment kitchen than the stainless-steel technical marvel of the famed La Baguette Magique! bakery kitchen back home in Portney.

Not that the state of the kitchen mattered. It wasn’t as if I could realistically give in to my inner child and open the cookie shop that I’d once dreamed of owning.

Maybe if my magical abilities had ever manifested… I didn’t bother finishing the thought. What was the point? I’d been down that road a thousand times and always arrived at the same place.

I came from a long line of powerful kitchen witches who could whip up life-altering, delectable masterpieces with barely a flick of their wrists, and I’d been born on ancient soil steeped in raw magic. My magical abilities should have been spectacular. But the most awe-inspiring thing I could do was make a pan of brownies disappear in minutes.