Chapter 2
FINN
What the hell was wrong with me?
I was still asking myself that as I dumped the bag of groceries on the kitchen counter in my apartment.
There was zero excuse for buying all the fondant out from under the hot guy at the store. None. Would it have been so hard to offer him one of my buckets? No. But instead of doing that and maybe getting his number, I’d waltzed off pretending I didn’t know what he was hinting at, like a total dick.
Good job with that whole “getting to know the locals” thing, Finn. Truly stellar.
It wasn’t like I even needed two buckets of fondant.
But this morning when I’d woken up, for the first time in a long time, I’d been seized with the urge to bake.
It had been a welcome sensation, and I’d headed to the store while my enthusiasm was still fresh.
And I hadn’t been lying when I told Cameron I was surprised to see decent baking stuff for sale.
So I’d stocked up, more out of habit than anything else.
It genuinely hadn’t occurred to me until later that I wasn’t living in the city now and there wasn’t another store nearby.
I’d accidentally screwed the hot guy—Cameron—over.
Which was a shame because I’d seen the way his expression had brightened when he’d clocked my rainbow pin, and I hadn’t imagined him checking me out.
That would have been the perfect opportunity to invite him over for a cookie-making session, dazzle him with my kitchen skills, and then see if he was interested in maybe licking my frosting.
Wow. Was that seriously the best baking innuendo I could come up with? I’d have to up my game unless I wanted to stay just as single in Sugar Hollow as I had been in New York. And I didn’t want anything to be like it was in the city.
Sugar Hollow was meant to be a fresh start, a chance to take a breath and figure out what I wanted to do with my life.
Had I moved here in a desperate bid to escape the well-meaning friends back home who kept trying to hook me up with both job opportunities and their single friends?
Absolutely. But that didn’t mean I didn’t like it here.
The town had an innate charm, and even though I’d only been here for a couple of weeks, away from the noise and stress of Manhattan, I could feel peace settling in my bones.
The few locals I’d met so far seemed nice enough.
I just needed a chance to meet a few more of them.
And I was good at making friends. I was outgoing and fun to be around. Everyone said so.
The guys at the sawmill where I worked had already invited me out for drinks, and I wasn’t sure why I’d said no. They all seemed decent enough, and I knew the gay thing wasn’t a problem. Their foreman Pete had a husband, and nobody seemed to care.
Maybe it was just a hangover from the last place I’d worked at being such a toxic shithole.
I was still squirrely about getting caught up in workplace politics.
Although now that I thought about it, I didn’t think there were any politics at the sawmill—part of the reason I liked working there so much.
I decided that if they asked me again next week, I’d say yes.
I put the groceries away, and I had to smile to myself when I saw that I’d automatically left the butter, sugar, and flour out on the counter.
It had been six months since I’d left my last job and in that time I hadn’t so much as lifted a spatula, but apparently the baking vibe was back, baby.
I was pulling on my apron and setting the oven to preheat before I’d thought about it twice.
I didn’t need a recipe to make my mom’s shortbread cookies—I’d started making them when I was five and it was basically muscle memory after twenty-five years—and by the time I’d rolled out the dough, cut it into festive shapes, and put the cookies in the oven, I was humming under my breath. I felt lighter than I had in months.
Huh.
I made a pot of coffee, and while it brewed I picked up the flyer that was lying on the counter. The guy at the store had put it in the bag with my groceries, and it was printed in vivid red and green ink with a font that practically beat me over the head with festive cheer.
I poured my coffee, then read the contents.
It’s almost time for the Sugar Hollow Gingerbread Festival
Featuring the Annual Sugar Hollow Gingerbread House Competition!
First Prize—a one-hundred-dollar gift card from Wilson’s Grocery.
All proceeds will be donated to Sugar Hollow Animal Shelter.
Entries close December 1!
Reading further, it looked like the Gingerbread Festival was a big deal.
The main street was closed off for a day for a variety of craft stalls and food vendors, and the whole thing culminated in the judging of the gingerbread house contest. There was an entry fee that people paid to go and see the houses on display.
There was also a bake sale that ran the weekend before the contest, and the proceeds all went to the local animal shelter.
The attached entry form had a list of the rules for the contest—entry must be completely edible, entry must be the entrant’s own work, entrant must be a resident of Sugar Hollow, finished product must be delivered to Sugar Hollow Community Center for display between December first and December tenth—and I found myself seriously considering it.
Entering a local competition and taking part in the festival activities would be a great way to meet people.
And making a gingerbread house? That was child’s play—at least, it would be for me.
But then, I’d spent the last five years working at one of New York City’s premier wedding cake bakeries, and a lot of the techniques that went into cake decoration also applied to gingerbread houses.
And I’d been fucking amazing at wedding cakes.
I’d loved my job too, right up until the company had changed hands a year ago, and along with the new bosses came longer hours, an unrealistic workload, and a workplace so soul-crushing that it had me questioning all my life choices.
The day I’d stood at the top of the staircase in my apartment building trying to decide if falling down the stairs was preferable to going into work had been the day I’d quit, and I hadn’t so much as whipped up a buttercream since.
I looked at the form again, with its garish red and green print. Maybe this was a sign. Maybe it was time to learn how to enjoy my craft again.
And Cameron makes gingerbread houses, a helpful voice reminded me.
That meant he was probably entering, so this could be my chance to charm him, maybe flirt a little if he seemed interested, and show him I wasn’t a total asshole after all.
Not that I’d be entering because of that. I’d be doing it for the animal shelter. For charity.
That was what I told myself, anyway.
By the time the oven timer pinged, I’d already filled in the form and tucked it into the back pocket of my jeans, feeling decidedly optimistic. This was a great chance to find my people in Sugar Hollow.
Plus I was pretty sure I could win this.
I dropped my entry form off during my lunch break on Monday at the tiny building that doubled—tripled?
—as the library, community center, and town clerk’s office.
The middle-aged blonde woman behind the counter—Sherri, according to her name badge—gave me an assessing look.
“New to town?” she asked, tilting her head.
“Yeah,” I said. “Just arrived two weeks ago.” I gave her a tentative smile. “I wanted to get away from the city, you know? Breathe some fresh air.”
“Well, welcome to Sugar Hollow”—her gaze flicked down to my entry form—“Finn Kelly.”
“Thanks,” I said, then added, “I’m really looking forward to the festival. I love gingerbread. Do you bake, Sherri?”
It was like I’d flicked a switch. Her face lit up with excitement. “I still use my grandmother’s recipe! And I always enter the competition, even though I have no chance of winning. My icing tends to drip down the side of my houses.”
“Oh,” I said, “you ice the panels while they’re flat and then assemble your building.”
Sherri stared at me like I was the Second Coming. “I never even thought of that,” she said, her tone almost reverent, “but of course it makes perfect sense!” She gave me a smile that held real warmth.
“As long as you don’t use that knowledge against me and scoop the competition,” I teased.
“Oh, there’s no chance of that, but at least this year my husband won’t have to listen to me cursing like a sailor while all my decorations slide right off,” she said with a laugh.
I laughed along with her and gave her a smile of my own. “Glad I could help.”
“Welcome to Sugar Hollow,” she said again, and I got the feeling that this time she actually meant it. “Let me know if there’s anything you need help with while you’re finding your feet.”
“Thank you,” I said, warmth settling in my chest. Small towns tended to fall into one of two camps—warm and welcoming or cold and insular—and so far, Sugar Hollow seemed like it was the first kind, although that could have been because I was doing my best to make a good impression. Still, it seemed to be working.
I headed back to the sawmill where I spent the afternoon working my ass off stacking timber.
It was dirty, repetitive work and my back always ached by the end of the day, but I liked that expectations were simple and clear-cut and that my mind was free to wander while I worked.
It meant that by the time I clocked off I’d decided on what to make for my competition entry.
I got the feeling a traditional cottage with candy canes and pine trees wasn’t going to cut it, so I’d decided to go all out and build the Nakatomi Plaza.
What? Die Hard was totally a Christmas movie.