Grumpy Pucking Christmas (Chicago Blades #6)

Chapter 1

Holly

The scent of gingerbread wraps around me like a warm, edible hug as I pipe delicate snowflakes onto a fresh batch of cookies.

Outside the frost-rimmed windows of Sugar Rush, Chicago is doing its best impression of a snow globe, fat flakes swirling in the dusky afternoon light.

Inside, it’s complete holiday chaos – the good kind.

Fairy lights strung haphazardly from the exposed beams cast a warm, golden glow over the mismatched tables.

Tinsel garlands loop around the display cases, catching the light, and the air hums with the combined melodies of Bing Crosby, the clatter of plates, the hiss of the espresso machine, and the easy chatter of customers seeking refuge from the December chill.

The scent is a layered symphony: rich, dark chocolate melting for ganache, the sharp, comforting tang of cinnamon and nutmeg from the gingerbread men cooling on racks, the buttery sweetness of shortbread, and beneath it all, the warm, yeasty promise of the cranberry-orange loaves proofing for tomorrow.

“Order up, Hols! Two peppermint mochas, one eggnog latte, and a large drip for Mr. Henderson!” Charlie calls from behind the register, her voice cutting through the din as she slides a tray of mugs onto the counter.

Her bright blue hair is tucked under a festive elf hat today, a stark contrast to my own flour-dusted bun secured with candy cane striped pencils.

Charlie Simpson is my best friend, my business partner in all the ways that matter except legally, and the only reason I haven’t dissolved into a puddle of icing under the pre-Christmas rush.

She moves with a dancer’s grace despite the cramped space, refilling the ‘Naughty or Nice’ sprinkle dispensers while simultaneously taking a phone order.

“Got it!” I call back, carefully transferring the snowflake cookies onto a cooling rack before wiping my hands on my apron, which has dancing gingerbread men wearing tiny scarves. The cheerful print feels like a lie against the knot of anxiety tightening in my stomach.

Business is good. Phenomenally good, actually.

The shop is packed, a steady stream of customers braving the weather for a hit of holiday cheer and sugar.

The display cases are a kaleidoscope of festive treats: meticulously decorated Yule log cakes dusted with powdered sugar ‘snow,’ rows of peppermint bark gleaming like stained glass, spiced molasses cookies shaped like stars and trees, and my personal favorite, the gingerbread houses – intricate little edible villages complete with gumdrop pathways and pretzel stick fences.

Sugar Rush is everything I ever dreamed of when I poured my inheritance and every last dime of savings into opening it three years ago. My little corner of holiday magic in the heart of Wicker Park.

And yet, the pile of envelopes tucked under the cash register feels heavier than a sack of flour. Rent increase. Property tax adjustment. The astronomical quote for repairing the bakery’s aging oven before it dies completely.

The numbers swim before my eyes whenever I let myself think about them, threatening to drown the gingerbread-scented joy. I plaster on my best ‘Sunshine Baker’ smile – the one that’s become as much a part of the shop’s branding as the twinkle lights – and focus on the customers.

“Here you go, Mr. Henderson,” I say, sliding the large ceramic mug of black coffee across the counter to the elderly man who’s claimed the same corner table every afternoon for years. “Warming up from the inside out?”

He gives me a gap-toothed grin, his cheeks ruddy from the cold. “You’re an angel, Holly. This blizzard’s got my bones creaking louder than these old floorboards.” He gestures vaguely towards the worn wooden planks beneath our feet.

“Just doing my part to spread the warmth,” I reply, the words automatic, genuine, but underscored by that persistent, low thrum of worry. Spreading warmth is getting expensive.

I turn back to the espresso machine, catching Charlie’s eye. She’s watching me, a knowing look softening her features as she hands a little girl a cookie shaped like a reindeer, dusted with sparkling green sugar.

“Deep breaths, boss,” she murmurs, sidling closer while the little girl’s mother pays.

Her voice drops, low enough only for me to catch over the din.

“That old oven is going to make it until we have the cash to fix it. And Mrs. Kowalski just called – she wants four dozen of the gingerbread houses for her grandkids’ school party next week. That’s a nice chunk of change.”

I nod, forcing another smile, this one feeling tighter around the edges. “I know, Charlie. I know. It’s just… Tony Taviani stopped by again yesterday.” The name leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

Charlie’s eyes narrow. “That vulture. What did he want this time? Besides the obvious?”

“The ‘obvious,’ as you put it,” I sigh, tamping down fresh coffee grounds with more force than necessary. “He slid another offer across the counter. Lower than the last one.”

I don’t mention the way he’d looked around my bustling bakery with the calculating gaze of a predator eyeing prime real estate. Which, to him, it was. Just land. Bricks and mortar. Not a living, breathing heart of a neighborhood.

“He said he’s ‘consolidating the block’ for ‘revitalization.’ Told me to think about my future.” His creepy smile had made my skin crawl. “Said sentimentality doesn’t pay the bills.”

“Sentimentality?” Charlie scoffs, slamming the cash drawer shut a little harder than necessary after handing the mother her change.

“Is that what he calls community? History? The fact that Mrs. Gable met her husband at one of your cookie-decorating workshops? Or that the high school choir comes here for hot cocoa after caroling every year?” She gestures wildly around the packed shop.

“This is revitalization, you slimy developer creep!” she mutters under her breath, glaring at the door as if Tony Taviani might materialize.

Her indignation is a comfort, a spark of shared defiance.

But the cold knot in my stomach remains.

Because Tony Taviani, with his sharp suits and sharper tactics, isn’t entirely wrong.

Sentimentality doesn’t pay the bills. The soaring costs, the relentless pressure…

it feels like I’m trying to hold back the tide with a cookie sheet.

The cheerfulness of the bakery suddenly feels fragile, the warm lights seeming to flicker against the encroaching shadow of reality.

“He gave me until after the holidays to ‘think on it,’” I add, pouring steamed milk into a mug with practiced ease, creating a wobbly peppermint swirl on top. “Merry Christmas to me, right?”

“His options can go suck a candy cane,” Charlie declares, her blue eyes blazing.

“We’ll figure it out, Hols. We always do.

Crowdfunding? A ‘Save Sugar Rush’ bake sale extravaganza?

I’ll dye my hair red and green and stand on the sidewalk singing carols if I have to.

” She pauses, her expression shifting. “Did you call that loan officer? The one specializing in small businesses?”

I wince, remembering the polite but ultimately discouraging phone call. “She said traditional financing is a long shot for us.” The words had landed like lead weights. The dream I built, feels perilously close to crumbling.

Charlie reaches across the counter, squeezing my flour-dusted forearm. “Hey. Look at me.” I meet her steady gaze. “This place? It’s magic. You built this magic. And magic doesn’t just disappear because some soulless suit waves a checkbook. We fight—together. Okay?”

Her determination draws a shaky, genuine laugh from me.

“Okay, Charlie. Okay. We fight.” The knot in my stomach loosens, just a fraction.

She’s right. Giving up isn’t in my DNA. Not when Sugar Rush means so much – to me, to the neighborhood, to the little girl now happily munching her reindeer cookie, leaving a trail of green sparkles on her coat.

I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the comforting, complex perfume of my bakery – cinnamon, chocolate, coffee, hope.

I make two more peppermint mochas, the familiar motions – swirling the syrup, topping with whipped cream and crushed candy canes – a small anchor in the sea of worry.

The rhythmic piping of frosting onto another batch of cookies helps too. Lose yourself in the details, Holly. One snowflake at a time. One customer at a time. That’s how you build a blizzard of goodwill. And maybe, just maybe, goodwill can pay the bills.

The afternoon rush begins to taper off around four. The snow outside is falling harder now, painting the bustling Wicker Park street in soft, silent white.

The shop empties gradually, leaving behind the comfortable hum of the refrigerators and the low murmur of a couple lingering over a shared slice of peppermint cheesecake. Charlie is wiping down tables, her elf hat slightly askew, humming along to “Silver Bells.”

I’m wrist-deep in a massive bowl of gingerbread dough, the spicy, molasses-rich scent rising like a comforting cloud, when the bell above the door chimes.

A small draft of icy air snakes in, making the lights shiver.

I look up, expecting another bundled-up regular or perhaps a last-minute cookie run.

Instead, I see a little girl.

She can’t be more than four or five, standing just inside the doorway, dwarfed by the heavy wooden frame.

Her bright pink puffer coat is dusted with snow, the hood pushed back to reveal a tangle of dark, curly hair escaping from beneath a striped knitted hat.

Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, and her eyes – wide, impossibly dark, and utterly mesmerized – are fixed on the towering display of gingerbread houses near the window. She’s completely alone.

“Well, hello there,” Charlie says brightly, walking towards the little girl with her most reassuring smile. “Are you lost, sweetpea? Where’s your grown-up?”