Chapter 31
Holly
As I’m packing up the icing and sprinkles, a sharp rap on the glass door makes me jump. Mrs. Gable stands on the snowy sidewalk outside, bundled in a bright red coat and matching hat, her breath puffing white in the cold air.
She’s holding a covered casserole dish. Her face, usually creased in a cheerful smile, is somber. Behind her, Mr. Henderson shifts the large poinsettia he’s carrying. He gives me a small, sad wave.
My throat tightens. This is the fifth time I’ve unlocked the door this morning. Customers. Neighbors. Friends. Coming to give me one last hug in the form of homemade food or a festive plant.
I force my legs to move, walking to the door. The bell chimes as I unlock it and push it open, letting in a blast of frigid air that smells like snow and car exhaust.
“Holly, sweetheart,” Mrs. Gable says, her voice thick with sympathy. She thrusts the dish towards me. “My famous lasagna. You need to keep your strength up.” The rich aroma of tomatoes and cheese wafts out, smelling like homemade comfort.
“Oh, Mrs. G, you didn’t have to—” I start, my voice raspy.
“Nonsense!” she interrupts, bustling past me into the stripped-bare space. Her eyes sweep the boxes, the bare counter, and fill with tears she quickly blinks away. “This is just… criminal, that’s what it is. That horrible man should be ashamed.”
She sets the lasagna dish down on the counter with a thump. “You eat every bite, dear. And if you need anything – anything at all – you call me.”
Mr. Henderson follows, setting the vibrant red poinsettia beside the lasagna. “Whole neighborhood’s rooting for you, Holly,” he says gruffly, patting my shoulder awkwardly. “Don’t know what we’ll do without Sugar Rush come January. Best damn gingerbread in the city.”
I manage a weak smile, the muscles in my face protesting. “Thank you. Both of you. Really. It means… everything.” My voice cracks on the last word.
They stay for a few more minutes, offering platitudes and shared outrage against Tony Taviani, their eyes darting around the bakery with undisguised sorrow.
When they finally leave, promising to check in later, the silence rushes back in, heavier than before. The scent of lasagna mixes uneasily with the lingering smells of cinnamon and vanilla.
I turn away, picking up a stray piece of bubble wrap that escaped a box.
I pop it absently, the sharp snap echoing in the emptiness.
The sound feels good. Satisfying. I pop another.
And another. Methodically, mindlessly, I hunt down every loose scrap of bubble wrap on the counter, popping each cell with grim focus.
Snap. Snap. Snap. It’s a tiny, pointless rebellion against the crushing weight of it all.
Against Taviani. Against the eviction notice.
Against the memory of Denton’s cold, detached expression.
Snap. Coward. Snap.
I’m elbow-deep in a half-packed box of mismatched mugs – the ones with chipped reindeer or slightly off-kilter snowflakes, the ones we never used for customers but kept for ourselves – when the bell chimes again.
Charlie stands just inside the door, silhouetted against the gray afternoon light. She’s carrying two large garment bags slung over one shoulder, their protective plastic shimmering, and gripping the neck of a bottle of champagne in her other hand.
Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, her dark eyes blazing with an intensity that cuts through the fog of my numbness.
“Charlie?” I blink, setting the Santa mug down. “What are you…?” My gaze flicks to the garment bags. “Did you rob a bridal shop?”
“Better.” She strides in, kicking the door shut behind her with her boot heel.
She drops the garment bags carefully over the back of one of the few remaining chairs and plonks the champagne bottle onto the counter beside Mrs. Gable’s lasagna and Mr. Henderson’s poinsettia.
“Tonight,” she announces, unwinding her scarf with a flourish, “is the Chicago Blades Annual Charity Snowflake Gala.”
I stare at her. The Blades. Denton’s team.
“Charlie, no. Absolutely not.” I shake my head, turning back to the box of mugs. “I’m not going anywhere near that.”
“Oh, yes you are,” she counters, her voice leaving no room for argument. She shrugs out of her coat, tossing it onto another chair. There’s a determined set to her jaw I know well.
“We have tickets. Courtesy of my cousin, George, who’s good friends with one of the players.”
She gestures grandly at the garment bags. “We are getting gloriously buzzed on champagne first. And you, Holly James, are going to walk into that room wearing something so devastatingly fabulous that Denton ‘The Wall’ Blake will spontaneously combust with regret the second he lays eyes on you.”
Her words are a deliberate assault on my carefully constructed cocoon of despair. The sheer audacity of this crazy plan leaves me momentarily speechless. I grip the edge of the counter, trying to steady myself.
“Charlie, look around,” I say, my voice low and strained.
I gesture at the boxes, the stripped shelves.
“My life is in cardboard boxes. My heart feels like someone ran it through the industrial dough sheeter. I just want to crawl upstairs, put on my rattiest pajamas, eat Mrs. Gable’s entire lasagna by myself, and not come out until… until springtime.”
The thought of facing a room full of glittering hockey people, of potentially seeing him… it makes my stomach churn. “I can’t.”
“Can’t?” Charlie plants her hands on her hips, stepping closer. Her dark eyes lock onto mine, fierce and unwavering. “Or won’t?”
She doesn’t wait for an answer. “He doesn’t get to do this to you, Hols. He doesn’t get to break your heart and dictate how you spend your last holiday season in this place.”
She sweeps her arm out, taking in the bakery. “This place that you built. This community that you brought together. He walked away from it. Fine. Let him. But you?” She points at me. “You are not crawling away. You are not letting him steal your sparkle.”
Her words hit a nerve. A raw, exposed nerve I’d been trying to bury. The numbness recedes, replaced by a slow, simmering anger.
“My sparkle feels gone, Charlie,” I mutter, looking down at my worn sweater. I haven’t showered, my hair is piled into a greasy disaster. I look like I feel: completely wrecked.
“Then it’s time to reignite it,” Charlie says firmly.
She walks over to the garment bags, unzips the first one and pulls out a dress.
Not just any dress. It’s a cascade of dark emerald green velvet, cut in a simple but elegant silhouette that hints at vintage glamour.
The fabric looks luxuriously soft, catching the dim light.
“Emerald for defiance,” Charlie declares, holding it up. “To match your eyes when you’re plotting something deliciously wicked.” She grins, a flash of her usual mischief breaking through the intensity.
“I might have called in a major favor with my friend Cassandra who works at Nordstrom. This,” she pats the velvet, “retails for more than my car’s worth. But screw it. We’re going full Cinderella. Minus the pumpkin, plus copious amounts of champagne.”
She unzips the second bag. This one holds a dress of deep, shimmering burgundy, with delicate straps and a subtle sparkle woven into the fabric. It’s undeniably stunning. Charlie holds them both up. “Pick your armor, my lady. Tonight, we storm the castle.”
I stare at the dresses. The rich colors seem impossibly vibrant against the gray backdrop of my half-packed bakery.
The velvet looks soft enough to sink into.
The burgundy shimmers with a promise of…
something. Not hope. But maybe defiance.
A refusal to be invisible. A refusal to let him see me broken.
The simmering anger shifts into something else. Charlie’s right. Denton doesn’t get to steal Christmas from me. If this is the end, if Sugar Rush is really gone… then I’m going out strong.
A slow, unfamiliar sensation spreads through my chest. It’s not happiness. It’s not even optimism. It’s pure, unadulterated screw you. A spark, tiny but fierce, flickering defiantly inside me.
I look from the emerald velvet to the shimmering burgundy, then back at Charlie’s determined face. The tiniest of smiles touch my lips.
“Fine,” I say, the word coming out clearer, stronger than I expected. I point at the emerald dress. “I’ll go. But only if there’s actually copious amounts of champagne involved.”
Charlie’s answering grin is triumphant. “Atta girl.” She pushes the emerald dress towards me.
“Now, upstairs. Shower. Chop chop. We have a gala to crash and a certain hockey player’s night to ruin.” She grabs the bottle of champagne. “And we’re definitely cracking this open for pre-gala fortification.”
As I gather the impossibly soft velvet in my arms, that tiny spark inside me flares a little brighter. Defiance, it turns out, feels a lot better than numbness.
Tonight, I wear the beautiful green dress. Tonight, I drink the champagne. Tonight, I show Denton Blake exactly what he walked away from.