The Holiday Whoopie (Hideaway Harbor #3)

Chapter 1

PRE-HEAT

Jack

I’m freezing my balls off for whoopie.

I—a steadfast southern Californian—am burrowing into my newly purchased Tom Ford cashmere scarf as the cold from the cobblestone sidewalk seeps into my leather Cole Haan loafers and my testicles stage a full retreat.

And all because of a Freudian-named pastry sold in an innuendo-laden bakery called Making Whoopie.

“Isn’t this fantastic?” Amanda Willis, actress, celebrity, and the reason I’m standing outside a bakery in a fishing village at the ass-end of Maine, clasps her mittened hands together and inhales like the air itself is cinnamon-sugar flavored.

I scan the scene—Main Street, Hideaway Harbor. No palm trees. No women in bikinis. Just a ridiculous number of Fraser firs and townspeople wearing enough buffalo plaid to start a lumberjack militia. “‘Fantastic’ is not the word that comes to mind.”

Amanda’s been riding a high since we crested the hill and rolled into town this morning.

We flew a red-eye from LA to Bangor, rented a car, drove through a postcard, and landed in a town that looks like a Hallmark movie exploded only to spend what was supposed to be a scenic one-hour drive from Bangor white-knuckling the steering wheel, dodging snowbanks while the GPS glitched—all as Amanda waxed poetic about the storybook scenery and holiday charm.

Stamping my feet, I knock snow off my shoes. “What even is a whoopie pie?”

Amanda hugs her coat tighter. “Two soft cookie-sized cakes—chocolate, pumpkin, red velvet, you name it—sandwiched around a fluffy cream filling. They’re Maine’s state dessert.”

I arch a brow, not having realized states had their own official desserts. “And you think that’s worth frostbite?”

She tips her head, eyes glittering. “Well, it’s also a long-standing euphemism for sex. Making whoopie. So technically, we’re freezing for dessert and innuendo.”

The cold catches my exhale, turning my exaggerated sigh into one giant puff of smoke. “Figures you’d drag me across the country for pastry foreplay.”

Amanda just laughs. I glower.

It’s during times like this that I remember the psych survey I took for extra credit in college—the one that declared I had “high responsibility” as my top personality strengths.

Other times include when I left corporate law for entertainment law after Felix decided to become an actor. Or when I took on Amanda after her coming out scandal during that movie she and Felix shot last year—even though I’d already started thinking about a career change.

“I read all about this place online.” Amanda pivots in her sheepskin-lined boots and nods toward the large bakery window, where the lucky early birds are inside, warm and content, selecting their sweets under the glow of central heating.

With her shearling-collared red plaid coat and matching ear-flapped hat, my friend, nee client, looks less like the Oscar-winning actress she is and more like the Grand Axewoman of the aforementioned militia.

“Today’s the first day Making Whoopie rolls out their holiday-themed whoopie pies.” She’s practically vibrating. “That’s why it’s so packed.”

I’d chalk up her excitement to how different the colonial Northeast coastal holiday culture is from her everyday West Coast Hollywood-hippie lifestyle, but as we’re both Californians and I feel nothing close to her level of enthusiasm by my surroundings, I don’t.

“I can’t feel my toes.” Chin tucked, my lips move against my too-thin scarf. “Amongst other things.”

“What was that?” Amanda eyes me sideways, her expression equal parts feigned innocence and amusement.

The bell above the door chimes as one happy pie-holding customer leaves, holding the door open so the person at the front of the line can slip in.

“Nothing,” I grumble, herding her forward in line.

She rolls her eyes before facing the window, nearly pressing her nose against the glass trying to see the whoopie pies past the crowd inside. “If you hate the cold so much, why did you follow me to Maine for the holidays?” Her breath fogs the window in front of her.

I’m about to blame it on my impulsive sense of duty but stop myself.

It’s not the truth. Because while I may skirt around honesty with legalese and vague Hollywood agent-speak, I make it a point not to lie to my friends.

And a year in to taking on Amanda as my client after her “scandal,” that’s exactly what she’s become. A friend.

So instead of telling the truth, I lean into the Scrooge aesthetic and glare at the tinsel-covered storefronts.

“Men in flannel. Environmentally questionable vintage trucks. Axe throwing as a viable dating activity.” I shrug. A gust of wind slips between my scarf and my double-breasted Burberry. “I was curious.”

“You were bored.” Amanda smirks, shuffling backward as the line creeps forward. “And maybe a little lonely.” She nudges my shoe with her boot. “Admit it.”

She’s not wrong. But it’s more than that.

Disregarding the lack of sleep and the unfamiliar weather, there’s something about Hideaway Harbor that scrapes up old memories like frost off a windshield—memories from my early childhood. Before my parents died.

The smell of pine. The crunch of salt underfoot. People hustling down the street, bundled up, arms full of Christmas purchases. Small-town stuff I remember from a time I’ve spent most of my life trying to forget.

Thanks to Felix’s mom Sofia taking me in when I was ten, I got to rewrite the script. Make new memories. New traditions.

Californian memories like faux Christmas trees that may not smell but never die and women rollerblading by the beach in red bikinis trimmed in white fur. And Portuguese traditions like Sofia’s honey-spiced cookies served with warm cinnamon milk.

Except this year, Sofia and Felix are spending the holidays with Elizabeth’s family.

Elizabeth—Felix’s fiancée, and the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

Worst thing that’s ever happened to me, though.

I shake off the churlish thought, blow on my hands, and pretend it helps. Then, like I’m not actively plotting my escape to the nearest heat source, I deadpan into Amanda’s heartfelt gaze, “I admit nothing. Except early-stage frostbite.”

Audrey

The scent of sugar and cocoa wraps around me like an old friend as I pace behind the counter, trying to pretend I have full control over my bakery right now.

—“She’s so down-to-earth looking.”

—“If she’s had work done, you can’t tell.”

—“I can’t believe Hideaway has an Oscar winner in town for the holidays!”

My customers are in full gossip mode, huddled like kids plotting their Christmas lists, buzzing with excitement and completely oblivious to the rising panic crawling up the back of my neck.

“I can’t believe it’s really her.”

Mia Keye, photographer for the local paper, The Almanac, has her eyes glued to what she can see of movie star Amanda Willis through the window display—past the carefully arranged tower of whoopie pies and the garland-tangled reindeer I spent all night positioning for today’s holiday flavor launch.

She glances down at her hands—latte in one, whoopie pie in the other—like she's cursing herself for not bringing her camera, seeing as this is the biggest celebrity scoop Hideaway’s had all year.

“She’s even prettier in person,” Hudson Locke, fireman and frequent public nuisance, mumbles around a mouthful of whoopie pie.

A whoopie pie from the order he just purchased—and is still standing here eating and gawking.

He’s large enough to block the counter for two people, and until he leaves, I can’t let in the next round of customers, celebrity or not.

I shake off the thought that an assistant would be nice and keep alternating between counter service and bakery work.

This past fall, looking over the numbers, I convinced myself I could handle the holiday season alone.

That I didn’t need extra help. By saving money on staff, I could afford more advertising.

And more advertising meant more reach. More reach meant more success.

Success I’d very much like my number-driven mother to notice so she can finally stop sighing dramatically whenever someone mentions my “little bakery” in “that little town” I moved to two years ago.

Because once I ensure Making Whoopie’s success, I can stop feeling guilty about why I really left my near celebrity-level status as New York City Ritz Carlton’s foremost pastry chef for small-town entrepreneurship in Hideaway.

Mia snorts. “Amanda Willis wouldn’t be interested in any of your equipment, Hudson.” She gestures at his pants with her pie hand. “She came out as gay last year.”

Hudson shrugs, unfazed. “Then who’s the guy with her?”

Every head swivels toward the window like it’s choreographed.

“That’s her lawyer.” Mia lowers her voice. “I heard from the mayor he’d be coming with her.”

A hush falls over the bakery. Not the good kind. The kind people usually reserve for car crashes or funerals.

Hideaway Harbor prides itself on welcoming outsiders with mittens and maple syrup—but if there’s one group this town collectively mistrusts, it’s lawyers. No one says it out loud, but everyone knows we take more pride in not having one than we do in winning the sock-running championship.

And it doesn’t help that the guy standing stiffly next to Amanda in his designer coat has a whole “I don’t belong here” vibe.

I give up on trying to serve the next customer—everyone’s too focused on the sidewalk—and move to pull a tray of fresh pies off the trolley to restock the display.

“Poor girl,” Alice Cassidy, local librarian, murmurs from her spot near the door. “Amanda probably brought him to fend off paparazzi. She doesn’t know we’d never do anything invasive.”

Hudson glances at Mia, who’s now digging in her coat pocket and coming out with her phone. “Exactly.” He plucks it out of her hand just as she swipes the camera app open. “We don’t want to run her out of town.”

Mia’s glare promises vengeance.

A few customers chuckle, the tension softening, until Eileen Burrows—town matchmaker and owner of next door’s Love at First Sip—claps her hands like she’s just been handed a Hallmark Christmas plot on a silver tray.

“Instead of a lawyer, I could help find her a lady friend instead.”

Alice groans. “Eileen.”

“What?” Eileen shrugs. “It’s the season of giving. And frankly, those Hollywood types would be lucky to link up with a Hideaway local.” She eyes me over the top of her latte like I’m a box of cookies she just remembered she left on the shelf. “Bring them down to earth to what really matters.”

“I’m not gay.” I slide the back of the display case closed on a sigh.

Part of me is flattered—being referred to as a local means more than I want to admit. But another part is irked it’s taken Eileen two whole years to include me in her matchmaking mayhem.

At first, I assumed her lack of interest in my dating life was because I was new to town. But then as months turned into years, I worried it was something else.

Like maybe she thought I was too prickly. Too controlling. Too... something that had my love life just as stagnant as it had been in New York City.

Now I’m wondering what I could’ve said—or done—that made her think I’m not in the market. Or at least, not in the market for a man.

Eileen just smiles, cat-who-got-the-canary style. “I know.”

Before I can press her on that, the front bell chimes again, the warm scent of cinnamon and cocoa colliding with a gust of cold air as another customer squeezes inside before anyone has left.

I close my eyes for a second and breathe it all in. Holiday Whoopie Day. My busiest, most chaotic, most profitable day of the year.

If I can keep the line moving.

If I can turn over customers before they freeze to death outside and give up.

If a movie star and her fancy lawyer don’t walk inside and blow the whole system to hell.

Mia whispers something about helping Amanda skip the line. Hudson’s talking about running interference. Eileen’s leaning toward the window like she’s already planning matching flannel pajamas.

Nope. Not happening.

If Amanda Willis walks into this bakery, she’ll be swarmed.

Which means chaos.

Which means delays.

Which means a full-on holiday meltdown.

Time to save us all.

I grab a fresh box, fill it with an assortment of crowd favorites—Hot Cocoa & Chill, Jingle My Berries, Fa-La-La-La-Filled—and head for the door.