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CHAPTER 1
RAEGAN
I’m trying to get lost in the monotony of baking. It normally works as a distraction. I like the simplistic complication of it. There are measurements, there are steps, but there is still an art to it, a feeling.
All year I can get lost in it all, but there’s one time of year when I want to throw the dough across the room and go hide in my room and not come out. It’s not exactly a popular opinion, but I hate Christmas. It starts earlier and earlier every year. It’s barely December and I feel like I’ve been dealing with this for months.
I can’t fucking wait until Christmas actually arrives. It’s not because I’m looking forward to it. It’s because then I can put another year of this crap in my rearview. It can’t come soon enough.
I sigh as I grab the ingredients that I need for the custard filling for my éclairs, trying to pull good thoughts to the forefront of my mind and let go of my annoyance. I love this bakery. I’ve put my all into it along with my sisters, Justice and Isabella.
There are days I marvel at it. We built something from nothing because we wanted to, because we found a way to pull our passions together. We all love baking, but Justice and I love experimenting and trying new things where Isabella also has a mind for business. All three of us love helping customers and meeting new people.
It worked out in a way I didn’t think it would when it was just a pipe dream. Now it’s a reality.
That’s pretty fucking cool.
I’ve just started to find some peace with my racing thoughts, frustrations, and feelings of annoyance when I hear my sisters arguing out front. I roll my eyes and finish up, dumping the dishes I’ve dirtied in the large sink. When I wash my hands and put the custard in the fridge, all my Grinch-y feelings are back in full force.
What I see when I open the door to the kitchen makes me want to burn the whole place to the ground. Why is there so much damn tinsel everywhere? It’s…no, really, it’s everywhere in our cute little French inspired éclair shop.
Not just tinsel either. There are lights. There is a giant fucking stocking which must be taller than me. Considering I got my height from my mom, just like my sisters, that’s not saying much since I top off at 5’4”.
I run my hands through my hair and try not to freak out.
“What are you guys arguing about?”
Wow. I didn’t even snap at them or snatch up every bit of tacky Christmas crap to haul it on my sled to the top of the mountain so the people of Whoville don’t get to celebrate this year. Maybe I’m letting some of my hatred for the season go? Or I’m just getting better at stuffing it down and ignoring it.
My sisters, who love the holiday, flash me matching sheepish smiles.
“Justice wants to put up the decorations and she went shopping,” Isabella totally throws our middle sister under the bus.
Justice scoffs and whips around to glare at our big sister. “It’s December. I wanted,” she emphasizes the word, “to put up the decorations last week, but I waited.”
“You know she hates it,” Isabella hisses.
I sigh. I do hate it. It’s not that I hate everything about it. On paper Christmas is magical and beautiful. However, the idea of it, the whole reason for the season if you will, gets lost. There are the people who think that being a vaguely good person for some of the holidays is enough and once the tree gets put in the trash, so does their good will toward men and spirit of giving.
Then there are those who only feed on the over commercialization of the holiday. It’s the reason I’ve always fought to put off putting up the decorations. I don’t want to be a part of it, but at the same time, we’re a business.
Do I have a chocolate peppermint éclair on the menu now? Yes. So, it’s possible I’m a hypocrite.
“I think the tinsel is pretty,” my voice sounds fake as fuck and full of it even to me and I wince.
My sisters turn toward me and eye me suspiciously. It’s a fair reaction. I still narrow my eyes at them.
Isabella steps forward, “Are you okay?” She moves as if reaching to feel my forehead. “Are you feeling sick?”
I slap her hand away as Justice comes closer, peering at me as if she’s a fucking human thermometer. “If you’re sick, you can’t be here and you can’t be baking,” she lowers her voice, almost hissing at me before looking over her shoulder to see how the customers at the few bistro style tables we have are.
“I’m fine,” I deadpan.
They share a weighted look before turning back to me and I barely stop myself from rolling my eyes. Justice arches an eyebrow, her voice a challenge, “Does that mean we can put up the decorations?”
I press my lips together and grit out through my teeth, “Yup. Of course, you can put the decorations up.”
Isabella speaks out of the side of her mouth to Justice as they both stare at me, “Should we call someone?”
