Chapter 29
Simon
The day after Christmas, Violet and I walk hand in hand to the bakery.
It’s downright cold today, the kind of cold that doesn’t quite bite but definitely nips.
I pull up the collar on my coat while she shoves her gloved hands into her pockets.
Our breath clouds the air between us in little bursts of white.
“I almost wish we’d driven,” she says, voice muffled in her scarf.
“I thought the morning walk was your favorite part of the day.”
“It is. When it’s not freezing. Is this how cold it gets in New York?”
“Baby, this is warm for a New York December.”
Violet shakes her head, her smile small and teasing. “I’ll never understand how you grew to enjoy that.”
“One of these days I’ll take you ice skating at Rockefeller Center. You’ll get it.”
Violet shivers and bumps my shoulder with hers. “I guess we’ll have to see, won’t we?”
“Oh, we’ll see. Just you wait.”
I throw an arm around her shoulders and press a kiss into her hair as we walk down the quiet sidewalk.
Frost coats the grass, glittering beneath the golden glow of the streetlamps.
Christmas lights are still strung between the palm trees, their reflections sparkling on damp pavement.
Stillwater Bay feels half-asleep, the kind of sleepy that happens when joy lingers.
The walk is short but brisk. Violet unlocks the bakery door, flips on the lights, and steps inside. Warmth blooms as the ovens hum to life. She stands in the middle of the seating area, gaze sweeping over the walls, the shelves, the tables, the chairs.
“What do you see?” I ask softly.
“I see something my parents built and built well. I see happy memories in every nook and cranny. I smell Mom’s croissants—so buttery and flaky and mouthwatering. I see Dad greeting everyone who walked through those doors. I can hear his voice, Si. Just rich and warm.”
“What else do you see?”
Violet’s gaze drifts toward the counter.
“I see the work I put in to make this place my own. The nights I spent going over menus, deciding what to keep and what to change. I hear the tap of my pen on the desk while I tried to make sense of the financials. I see myself behind the counter on opening day, terrified I was going to burn the place down—and then smiling at the end of it all because it turned out I was good at this.”
“What else?”
Her silver-gray eyes find mine. “I see my future. A dream I thought I’d lost. I see us turning that dream into reality.
Your coffee, my baked goods. Our menu changing with the seasons.
I see us laughing when we brainstorm—and probably fighting when things get hard.
But I see us coming together, keeping the Sterling tradition alive for the next generation. ”
“Anything else?”
“I see the boy I used to love,” she whispers, stepping closer. “He’s turned into a man I can respect.”
Violet slips into my arms, eyes shining. I kiss the side of her mouth.
“I like the sound of that,” I murmur, then slide my hands up her back and kiss her fully.
The bells above the door jingle and Elizabeth steps in, eyes wide. “Oh! Okay then. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Violet laughs against my chest. “Probably best if you just get used to walking in on that. Simon’s going to be spending a lot more time here.”
We spend the day finding a rhythm—how we move around each other, how her focus and my precision fit together like gears in motion. When the bakery is quiet, we huddle over the counter with our notebooks, tossing around ideas for coffee blends and pastries to match them.
“The original idea was Holiday Coffee & Cake,” I say, “but until you have my last name, that seems a little presumptuous.”
“Until, huh?” Violet quirks a brow. “Which of us is being presumptuous?”
“We could always keep it Sterling’s. Honor the tradition.”
“Yeah, but Holiday plays into the theme—seasonal offerings, limited editions…” Her eyes meet mine, bright with hope and possibility. “What were you going to call your coffee shop?”
“Holiday Jitters.”
She blinks. “Holiday Jitters?”
“Yeah. You know, too much caffeine, family stress, the holidays—”
“Simon,” she interrupts, laughter spilling out of her like sunlight. “Don’t take this the wrong way but that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“What’s the right way to take that?” I flare my hands because ouch. “That name is clever.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
“It tested well!”
“Oh, well then,” she teases, throwing her hands in the air. “If it tested well…”
Her laughter rings through the bakery, warm and golden. She’s radiant in this light, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. I grin just watching her.
The bells over the door jingle and in walk Robbie, Nora, and Nash—red-cheeked and bundled tight, looking like a Norman Rockwell painting come to life.
“This looks good,” Robbie says, wagging a finger between us. “The two of you here? It feels right.”
Nora nods. “Looks like we got our Christmas miracle after all.”
Nash turns as the door closes, then runs to the big front window, pressing his nose to the glass. “Mom! Dad! Look!”
We all turn. For a second, I don’t understand what I’m seeing—just tiny white specks catching the sunlight. Then realization hits.
Snow.
Actual snow.
Violet gasps beside me. “Oh my goodness…”
Nora claps her hands to her mouth, laughing. “It’s really snowing! In Florida!”
We rush outside, the chill biting through my sweater, the snow soft as feathers against our skin.
The street looks dusted in powdered sugar.
Nash tilts his face to the sky, mouth open, trying to catch flakes on his tongue.
Robbie spins him in a circle, whooping, and Nora watches, laughing like a child.
I glance at Violet—her hair catching snowflakes, her cheeks pink from the cold, her eyes luminous. “See why I love it?” I whisper.
She smiles up at me. “It’s magic, Si.”
And watching her amazement, I have to agree. This moment?
Magic.
After we finally step back inside, stamping our feet and shaking off the snow, the bells jingle again. Roger Clementine ambles in, coat dusted white, beard as fluffy as the frosting on Violet’s cinnamon rolls.
He yawns, eyes half-lidded. “Morning, folks. You wouldn’t happen to have the biggest cup of coffee this side of the North Pole, would you?”
“Rough night, Roger?” Violet asks, grinning as she moves behind the counter.
He chuckles, rubbing his eyes. “Christmas always wears me out. Long nights, lots of deliveries, you know how it is.”
Nash’s eyes widen, wonder blooming across his face. “Mom,” he whispers, tugging on Nora’s sleeve, “I told you! He’s Santa!”
Roger winks at him, taking his steaming mug from Violet. “Now that,” he says, “is classified information, young man.”
Nash beams, and Violet presses a hand to her chest, the bakery filled with laughter and the scent of sugar and snow and something else—something new and bright and full of promise.
Outside, the snow keeps falling, rare and perfect. Inside, the warmth spreads through every corner, as if the heart of Stillwater Bay itself decided to glow.